


























THE LAST ATHENIAN. 

TRANSLATED 
FROM THE SWEDISH OF 

VICTOR RYDBERG. 

* » 

BY 

WILLIAM W. THOMAS, Jr. 

LATE UNITED STATES CONSUL AT GOTHENBURG, SWEDEN. 


“ The Last Athenian " is a novel of a high order of merit and interest, and is 
certainly a remarkable one. The scene is laid in Athens, at the time of Julian, the 
Apostate. The story is in itself strangely dramatic, a)id has many striking char- 
acters. A love story runs through it, and the scenes are piquant and touching. 
The plot is full of thrilling interest, the general tone pathetic, while the philosophy 
is able, ingenuous , and characteristic. The characters are all traced with a bold, 
nervous hand, and are powerfully individualized. The style is animated and 
graphic, and its pictures of Athenian life and character have a freshness and vital- 
ity that usually belong only to direct studies of the real. All who Juive enjoyed IVm. 
Ware's classic stories, “ Zenobia” and “Aurelian," Mrs. Child’s “ Philothea,” 
Kingsley s “ Hypatia,” as well as every student of history, every worshipper of the 
beautiful, every lover of the antique, and every seeker after truth, should read 
“ The Last Athenian,” whose literary merit is equal to that of the best of them, 
whose study of ancient manners is profound, and whose moral is deeply interesting. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 
306 CHESTNUT STREET. 




y'<P 



9 






copyright: 

T. 33. PETERSO NT &c BROTHERS. 

1879. 










TO 

S. A. HEDLUSDj 

OF GOTHENBURG. 

THE SWEDISH CHRYSANTEUS, 

A EUROPEAN REPUBLICAN, 

THE TRUE FRIEND OF AMERICA IN HER DARKEST HOURS, 

AND 

A knight “ sans peur et sans reprochef f 

THIS VOLUME 

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 

BY HIS FRIEND 


THE TRANSLATOR 






































































































































CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

I. — ATHENS, — A MORNING FIFTEEN HUNDRED YEARS 

AGO... 25 

II. — THE MEETING IN THE MARKET 34 

III. — DELPHI. — THE ORACLE SEEKER 46 

IV. — CHRYSANTEUS 62 

V. — hermione’s night in the temple 75 

VI. — THE proconsul in a puzzle. — AT the bishop’s 

PALACE 89 

VII. — PETER 108 

VIII. — THE PILLAR SAINT 120 

IX. — THE PHILOSOPHER’S HOME 143 

x . — the philosopher’s home — ( Continued .) 163 

XI.— RACHEL 178 

XII. — THE COMMENCEMENT OF A TRAGEDY 192 

XIII. — THE TRAGEDY 203 

xiv . — the tragedy — ( Continued .) 223 

xv . — the tragedy — ( Continued .) 243 

XVI.-— UNDER THE NEW EMPEROR 258 

XVII. — ONE YEAR AFTERWARDS 269 

XVIII. — PETER AND BARUK 284 

XIX.— THEODORUS 302 

XX. — THE MEETING 316 

17 


CONTENTS 


18 

Chapter Page 

XXI. — THE SKEPTIC 329 

XXII. — CHARMIDES AND RACHEL.. 352 

XXIII.— CLEMENS AND EUSEBIA 365 

XXIV.— CHRYSANTEUS FINDS HIS SON 386 

XXV. — THE FLESH AND THE SPIRIT 410 

XXVI. — AT MYRO’S 430 

XXVII. — THE MORGUE 441 

XXVIII. — THE WEDDING 457 

XXIX. — THE DAY AFTER 475 

XXX. — AT SUNIUM 482 

XXXI. — THE WAR IN SUNIUM 495 

XXXII.— THE END 529 


THE LAST ATHENIAN. 


CHAPTER I. 

ATHENS. A MORNING FIFTEEN HUNDRED YEARS AGO. 3 ; O' * 

“How is it, Charmides, has the God of the grape a 
son ? ” 

“ Truly, Olympiodorus, you have the troublesome habit of 
asking more than your friends can answer. It is easier 
to ferret out the pedigree of the Athenian dogs than that 
of the gods of Olympus. But why this question? Do you 
intend to busy yourself with mythology ? ” 

“No, by Jove, not I! I leave that to Chrysanteus and 
his beautiful daughter. I only mean that if there he such 
a son, I shall this very day write a song in his honor. His 
surname I have v\Te&&yf—Distributor-of-the-morning-pang. 

God of penitence and the blues , the Olympic Forehead- 
smith l Oh, my Charmides, if this doleful god he not yet 
born, would he might quickly see the light of day ! I feel 
my head is pregnant with him ! 19 

“ Very possible. Jove produced the goddess of wisdom 
from his head ; why then should not Olympiodorus ” 

“Exactly, I shall not be surprised if the Forehead-smith, 
as well as she, step forth in panoply, astonishing the world 
with anvil under arm and hammer in hand.” 

“ Compose yourself, my friend. The morning air should 

( 25 ) 


26 


The Last Athenian. 


chase away these mythologic fantasies. How freshly the 
wind blows from the sea ! It is delightful to inhale it.” 

“ Ah ! you are right. The morning hour is glorious — a 
discovery in natural history of which I shall tell my friends. 
How long is the shadow ? ” 

“ It draws near the closing of the market,” answered 
Charmides, as with practised eye he measured the sun’s 
altitude above the olive-girt Lycahettus. “Let us go to 
the market-place. We can drop in at Lysis, on the way, 
and empty a glass of iced Lesbian.” 

“ A good idea, it will relieve the pangs of delivery ! 
Hallo, Charmides ! better scatter your gold in some Danae’s 
lap, than here in the street ! You dropped a ring there ! 
It lies at your feet.” 

“ Ah ! Rachel’s ring ! The pledge of my little J ewish 
flame,” said Charmides to himself, as he picked it up and 
fastened it to his gold necklace. 

“ Praised be your sharp eyes, Olympiodorus ! I would not 
have lost this jewel for my Cappadocian Achilles.” 

“I understand you, you second Alcihiades. Ah, thrice 
happy friend ! You drank last eve like Milo the Crotonian, 
hut wine is to you as the dewdrop to the rose, you greet 
the morning all the more fresh and radiant. How was it ? 
Did not our good host, the proconsul, that Falernian sack, 
fall ^at last under the table ? My recollections of last night 
are like shadows wandering by Lethe’s strand.” 

“ You remember well enough. But do not abuse our 
Annaeus Domitius ! He is a remarkable man.” 

“ Yes, he has remarkable luck at dice ! ” 

“ I do not now mean the talent-: — ” 

“ Did he win again last night ? ” 

“ An inconsiderable sum. My pleasure-boat struck her 
colors for some caniculce ,* as he calls them.” 

* “Pups.” The unlucky throws of the dice, so called by Roman 
gamesters. 


The Last Athenian. 


27 


“ An inconsiderable sum ! Your brilliant pleasure-boat ! 
Ah ! your confidence is wonderful, but you have a gold- 
bringing Pactolus to dip from,” adding to himself; “this 
gold-flood must soon dry up. Ah me ! Where shall I 
next year find another Charmides ? V 

“ What I wonder at in our proconsul ” continued Char- 
mides, “ is his power of self command. The fetters which 
the god of wine lays upon such a man are but flower-chains 
he can sunder at will. He lay last night upon a sofa, the 
cup fallen from his hand, the wreath down against his nose, 
— his eyes half closed and his tongue lolling feebly to the 
tones of the Lydian flute in the most laughable attempt to 
follow its strains, when the porter announced that an im- 
perial courier awaited him. Our Annseus Domitius 
sprang up like a feather, put the wreath aside, arranged his 
mantle, strode with majestic step out into the hall, received 
the letter, read it by the gleam of the altar-lamp and 
despatched the bearer, only to return and renew the 
drinking-bout.” 

“Well, and the contents of the letter?” 

“ Bah ! what a question ! Go to the Sphinx of Egypt 
and learn, if you can, the riddle of nature.” 

“I judge that Julian — ” 

“ Silence ! Speak not that name,” interrupted Charmides, 
looking around. 

“Accursed Forehead-smith! How is it Charmides, am 
I not invited to your villa to day ? I have an inkling of 
certain words from your godly mouth concerning green 
trees and British oysters.” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ But Myro and Praxinoa ? ” 

“ They accompany us.” 

“ Glorious ! ” 

“ And with some others of our friends have appointed a 
meeting at the steps of the Acropolis, an hour after the 
closing of the market. 


28 


The Last Athenian. 


“ Good.” 

“You must not prepare yourself for anything extraor- 
dinary, Olympiodorus. All will he simple and country-like. 

“ Excellent! I long only for nature and innocence. I 
with joy will tend your oxen, shear your sheep, and drink 
water from the same fountain with your herds. Water! 
Drink for the gods ! — I hate,-— ah, cursed Forehead-smith, 
— all drinks except water ! I discern at this moment my 
true calling, — a herdsman,— a new Daphnis ! — You must 
let some Testylis or Amaryllis initiate me into the myste- 
ries of cheese-making. I renounce culture and hasten to 
Nature’s motherly bosom. Apollo was a herdsman ; Paris 
as well ; herdsman was, — 

“ That youth, whom Cypris herself in the Phrygian wood followed 
after; 

The wood in$ its depths saw her joy, and the wood saw also her 
sorrow ; 

Herdsman Endymion was and with cattle he slept when Selene 
ISager to kiss his dear ruby lips, stepped down from the heavens, 
Qlhea) lamented a herdsman and Thunderer’s self as an eagle 
Circling flew around Ida’s top for a beautiful shepherd.”* 

Why should not Olympiodorus condescend to the crook 
and pipe? But one word, Charmides, have you quails, 
fighting-cocks, and dice in your Arcadia ? ” 

“ Be at ease ! I share your dislike of the proconsul’s 
low tastes, since I have known Athenagoras.” 

“ Charmides, you must present me to that wonderful 
mortal. It seems like a tale, all this about liis wisdom and 
secret festivities. Is it so utterly impossible to be admit- 
ted into his order ? ” 

“ He chooses his acquaintances himself. The old philos- 
opher did the same, often upon incomprehensible grounds, 
so you can console yourself, if — 

“Pshaw! I will make his acquaintance! By the way, 
at the next races I shall enter my Bellerophon, silver-white, 


*Theocritus. 


The Last Athenian. 


29 


curly-maned, built to cleave the air like an arrow. Do you 
think I can match him against the proconsul’s Thracian 
stallion ? ” 

“ Yes, with certainty.” 

u I hope so.” 

The two youths now found themselves in front of the 
conversation-hall of Lysis, — one of those picture-decked 
haunts, so dear to the Athenians, and of which the city 
possessed more than the year has days. A multitude of 
customers were already on the spot and strolled, conversing, 
in the portico, or sat without, in the shade of an awning 
hung from the beams, enjoying their breakfast of bread 
dipped in wine. 

After they had refreshed thermselves with ice-cold Les- 
bian, they turned their steps toward the market-place. 

Here surged an eager crowd, for the ever-shortening 
shadow of the temple-crowned Acropolis reminded both 
buyer and seller that the hour approached when they must 
withdraw. • Fishermen in red caps and short tunics held up 
from their movable tanks squirming fish, announcing with 
loud cries, that it was now full moon and their wares at the 
best. Peddlers darted about -with samples of their goods ; 
young girls, offering flowers, wreaths and fillets, wandered 
between the long lines of wagons, which, while the .mules 
were feeding behind, captivated the eye with lemons, 
peaches, figs and vegetables. From other wagons the con- 
tents of pressed wine-sacks spouted into receiving vessels. 
A few steps in advance, just around the colossal statue of the 
Market-Hermes, — standing on the same spot as in the days 
of Aristophanes, — meat and sausage hawkers cried their 
wares, arranged in pillars and festoons, to numerous custom- 
ers. Among these the rich slaves were the most vociferous, 
— for here if anywhere, the weight of the purse decided 
that of the man. While the slave, his purchases finished, 
turned homeward with a full basket on his head, the poor 
2 


30 


The Last Athenian . 


citizen stole away with his scanty bit under his mantle, 
lucky if a hole therein did not disclose a full-blooded Athen- 
ian’s humiliation. Farther on where the multitude was less 
numerous, potters, workers in stucco and glass merchants 
stood between rows of their merchandise, often finished in 
the most artistic manner. Still farther away from the 
liveliest swarm of busy, gesticulating people, — around the 
triumphal arch, raised to commemorate the defeat of Cassan- 
der’s horsemen, were glittering booths where costly cloths 
from Asia and the Isles, incense and ointment from India 
and Arabia, jeweled ornaments and articles to suit every 
extravagant taste, attracted well-dressed purchasers of 
either sex. 

Charmides and Olympiodorus, — who before we met them 
had visited the bath and the hair-dresser, — now strolled 
along, increasing the number of young fops, who by some 
remarkable dispensation of fate, were awake thus early in 
the forenoon. Without any errand other than to swell the 
throng and appease their curiosity, they elbowed their way 
through the chaffering groups, now nodding at some fair 
maid from the quarter Scambonidae, now criticising the 
slave-girls exposed for sale, who offered freely to the view 
every form of female beauty from the blushing Syrian to 
the dark Ethiopian. The foreign merchants were also 
worthy of a glance. Here among a hundred others in the 
variegated mass, might be seen the lively, slender Alexan- 
drian, who, though born not far from the Pyramids, yet 
with his ancient Grecian habit claimed descent from the 
most cultivated race in the world, and, if questioned on his 
birth would answer that he was a Macedonian Hellen ; — the 
coarse-limbed Illyrian in his humble woollen mantle with 
its red border, proof of his free birth ; men from the boun- 
daries of Persia, easily recognized by their shaggy, cone- 
shaped caps, flowered coats and roomy trousers tied above 
the ankle ; the proud Spaniard, whose bright mantle of 


The Last Athenian. 


31 


woven bombast, bore witness, like Seneca’s tragedy, to his 
countrymen’s taste for the showy ; the long-bearded Jew in 
a dark caftan lined with skins ; and, to close the enumera- 
tion, the luxurious half-Hellen from Asia, with perfumed 
locks, gold rings in his ears, and tunic sweeping to his feet. 

Coming from the Piraean street, a man wended his way 
across the market-place. The throng opened willingly for 
him, the eye of every bystander was fastened upon his lofty, 
majestic figure, draped by the mantle, while many greeted 
him as he strode along. 

“ Chrysanteus,” muttered Charmides, his face darkening. 

“ Who is he ? ” whispered strangers, following him with 
their eyes till he vanished in the press. The answer came 
“ Chrysanteus the archon, — the rich Chrysanteus,” “ Chry- 
santeus the philosopher, the arch-heathen ! ” The last of 
these replies came from a Christian. 

Now the bell of the market-policeman sounded through 
the din, and in a few moments, all the booths were taken 
down, all the wagons harnessed, and the many-colored 
multitude swallowed up in the mouths of Piraean street, 
Ceramicus, and the other avenues leading on either side from 
the Acropolis. Immediately afterward, the arms of a num- 
ber of city slaves were in motion, polishing the stone 
pavement of the market, while water-carts crossed and 
recrossed, pouring forth a fine dewy rain, soon drunk up by 
breezes from the sea. 

The market, just now in dishabille, — and in that garb 
nearly unknown to the great mass of the Athenians who 
loved their morning dreams, regained, as by the stroke of a 
wand, its usual aspect, better according with its memory 
and dignity as the heart of the city of Minerva. 

A beholder choosing his position in front of the temple 
of Zeus Eleutheros, or the royal tribunal, which bounded 
the market on the south, would have seen to the right the 
town-house, the temple of justice, the metroon and the 


32 


The Last Athenian . 


temple of Apollo, a line of colonnades in the dull gleam of 
the different varieties of marble, all reposing in the 
shadows of the Acropolis, — while to the left the sun shone 
upon the blue-white pillars of the gallery of painting, and 
in the background of the picture cast a flood of rays over 
the Areopagus and the temple of the war-god lying at its 
foot. 

The surroundings of these noble forms of architecture, 
colonnades on colonnades where the Corinthian magnificence 
yielded to the Doric majesty, and this in turn to the light 
Ionic grace, gave to the vast and now nearly desolate 
market-place arched by the deep blue of heaven, an indes- 
cribable air of mournful grandeur. This was greatly 
enhanced by the bronze and marble statues, which, now the 
populace had departed, alone peopled the market, surround- 
ing it, pedestal to pedestal, in silent solemn lines. There 
they stood, their countenances stamped with Olympian 
peace, yet penetrated, as antiques always are, by a shade of 
sadness, — the ghosts of the mighty spirits of the past. 
They seemed indeed, as dreamily they gazed on the sun- 
beam’s play and the shadow’s path over this memorable 
spot, — to be raised above the changes of time, — blessed in 
themselves. 

Gradually this picture was filled with life. From the 
stately street Ceramicus, descended groups of citizens to 
meet on the market and discuss the news of the day and 
the business of the state. Among these Athenians, the 
stranger, had he an eye for such things, might still admire 
the Attic refinement in manner and speech, whose like was 
never found elsewhere, and the tasteful and chaste simplicity 
in dress that had been pressed out of the rest of the world 
by the daughter of despotism, — barbaric luxury. A sacri- 
ficial procession passed silent and unnoticed, — so unnoticed 
that it might have excited pity — between these groups, 
towards the marble steps of the Propylsea. In the colon- 


The Last Athenian. 


38 


nade of the picture gallery were assembled a master in 
Stoic philosphy and a number of hearers, mostly sons of 
Roman sepators and other noble youths come to Athens to 
receive the wisdom of Greece. For this city was yet side 
by side with Alexandria, a centre of antique culture, a 
university for the Roman Empire, outshining its rival with 
memories of the heroes of thought and life’s philosophy, 
Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Zeno, Epicurus. Long after the 
Christian Church had become triumphant, long after the 
last heathen altar, that of Victory, had been broken down 
at Rome, there was yet burning in the quiet, almost forgot- 
ten city by the gulf of Saronicus, the lamp of heathen 
philosophy, watched by holy memories, fed by the last drops 
of the oil of investigation, till, when ready to die of itself, 
it was put out by a blast from despotism ; — the pious world, 
obedient without the contradiction of a single voice, accept- 
ing the creed, credo quia absurdum.* Before this, at the 
time of our story, the teachings of Epicurus were still read 
in his celebrated gardens ; still were the doctrines of “ Plato 
the Godlike ” expounded on the very spot where he him- 
self, seven centuries before, had proclaimed them under the 
plane trees of tlitf Academy ; still strolled the disciples of 
Zeno among the master-pieces of Pamphilus and Polygnotus 
in the same colonnade that, tenanted by few but God-like 
figures, had given name to their school.t 

In the north-eastern quarter of the city, the bells began 
ringing from a Christian Church. The air, pure and 
elastic, wafted the mighty vibrations wide over the land. 
They resounded in the porticos, were broken against the 
chalky steeps of the Acropolis, and rebounding, were heard 
like deep foreboding sighs pressed from the bronze bosom 
of Pallas Athene, as, shining in the sun, a beacon for 

* An expression ascribed to church-father Tertullian, though it is 
not found word for word in his writings, 
t The name of the Stoics is derived from their painting gallery 
Stoa poikile, ” — “ variegated colonnade.” 


34 


The Last Athenian. 


sailors far beyond the Sunium cape she raised her colossal 
form from the summit of the cliff, and with helm-covered 
head looked down over the gable of the Parthenon, upon 
her charge, — the city, at her feet. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE MEETING ON THE MARKET. 

S ^ JL& * 

The bells were yet ringing, when Charmides and his 
friends assembled on the marble steps of the Propylaea. 
It was the Christians’ day of rest and praise ; they ap- 
peared, family after family, passing over the market on their 
way to church. The procession was numerous, and pre- 
saged that Athens herself, the bulwark of heathendom, 
might soon enough perhaps be in the possession of an 
enemy, not bursting in from without, but growing up with- 
in its very entrenchments. At Rome on the Tiber and 
Rome on the Bosphorus, in all the densely populated cities 
of the great Empire, the Christians were already superior 
in numbers. There, with the Emperor and the court as 
examples, many of the rich and noble had gradually gath- 
ered around the cross ; there every one, with a spark of am- 
bition in his bosom, had hastened to acknowledge a religion 
which was the only condition for preferment ; there finally 
a countless number of the children of necessity had found 
themselves incapable of resisting the gift of a garment and 
twenty pieces of gold, the bait wherewith Constantine, a 
new fisher of men unto the Lord, drew up souls from the 
depths of paganism. At Athens the case was different. 
It lay without the circle of the immediate influence of the 
Imperial court. Philosophy had in this its mother-earth, 
put forth its firmest roots, and at that hour still bore flowers. 


The Last Athenian . 


35 


The Athenian was held to the faith of his fathers by 
glorious historic recollections, and by the enchanting power 
of philosophy and art. He found it hard to condemn Peri- 
cles and Aristides, or to regard Socrates and Plato as the 
tools of evil spirits ; he would not willing^ pull down his 
temples, the master-pieces of architecture, or break asunder 
his statues, the wonder of sculpture. Therefore the greater 
portion of cultivated Athenians were still attached to the 
old religion, ennobled by a clearer consciousness of God, 
and imbued with philosophy. Many professed this ancient 
belief with greater affection than ever, because its existence 
was threatened, and with it, as they felt, the only salvation 
for human worth, freedom of thought, and declining cul- 
ture. But all those, to whom research, enjoyment of art 
and historic memories were as if they had never existed; 
all those, who were consumed by a hidden fire, by remorse 
for sins, for which they saw no reconciliation, by the terri- 
ble stings of conscience, or by fear of annihilation — all 
these, in number as the sands of the se^, had hastened to 
exchange for the certainty of reconciliation and eternal life, 
a belief which was only fitted for great souls, for jojmus, 
happy and harmonious beings, or for the thoughtless and 
giddy. The old belief offered little comfort to the weak 
who felt themselves trampled under in the struggle of life, 
to the poor and wretched, the guilty and contrite, or, in a 
word, to the great, masses of the human race, in that hard, 
unhappy, chaotic period. 

Let us return to the market, that at this moment pre- 
sented a picture of striking contrasts. The temples’ lordly 
colonnades, the statues of gods, philosophers, poets, heroes, 
lighted by a genial sun, overarched by a smiling heaven — and 
within this frame, plaited with the glad beauty of nature 
and art, — the multitude of church going Christians, who 
came streaming down from the quarters Colyttus and Scam- 
bonidse, — a serious, ay, sad throng — the women veiled, and 


36 


The Last Athenian. 


most of the men enveloped in coarse mantles. There were 
tattered vagabonds by the side of the Imperial officers in 
glittering Asiatic uniforms, — fanatics, covered with filth, and 
bleeding from self-inflicted wounds, side by side with bril- 
liant palanquins born# by slaves, in which noble Christian 
dames were reposing ; — all this passed before the eye, while 
the air quivered with the consecrated metal’s exhorting 
call. 

The group on the marble steps did not lessen the im- 
pression of this picture, antique in architecture, romantic 
in figures. The young Epicureans stood jesting around a 
palanquin, between whose curtains appeared now a gleam of 
that Coan tissue, which for its transparency was called 
linen mist ; now a snow-white jeweled arm, and now a girl’s 
curly head, which belonged to no less a person than Praxi- 
noa, Athen’s fairest courtesan. While her friend or per- 
haps rival, Myro, was yet awaited, the slaves led forward 
Thessalian horses covered with elegant blankets. 

Charmides, the, chief figure in the group, wore a white 
tunic held together by a golden meander-stitched girdle 
about the waist, and falling in rich folds to the knee, while 
over his waist-coat was a Tyrian mantle, carefully thrown 
across one shoulder. A gold chain, to which his signet-ring 
was fastened, hung around his neck. His nether limbs, 
bared from the knee to the silk shoe which covered the foot, 
had a marble-like gleam, which only exercise and the pol- 
ishing by batli-slaves with oils, essences and pumice-stone 
could bring about. The friends of Charmides were clad 
very nearly as he. Together, they formed a brilliant, but, 
to the passing Christians, by no means edifying spectacle. 

•‘Alas, these people,” said Praxinoa, speaking of the 
Christians ; “ their looks frighten me. Handsome Char- 
mides, draw the curtains. I shall faint if I have to see 
their unhappy faces.” 

When Praxinoa called Charmides “ handsome,” this term 


The Last Athenian. 


37 


of ordinary politeness was here applied with truth. His 
figure, possessing the natural nobility of the Grecian type, 
was developed by gymnastic exercise to a symmetry, worthy 
being chiseled in marble ; his features were regular, yet 
their regularity did not hinder the free play of intelligence ; 
in his face there was an extraordinary mingling of levity 
with decision, austerity and pride, and his whole being, 
from the glance of his eye to the .muscle-play in his limbs, 
bore witness to the tragic strife, in which nature slowly tir- 
ing, but yet victorious, contests the effects of persistent 
debauchery. 

“ By Bacchus ! ” exclaimed Olympi’odorus, casting a 
glance over the market as he arranged his horses’ harness, 
u there is the proconsul himself.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ By Market-Hermes’ statue ; he is standing by the side 
of a palanquin and conversing with the lady in it.” 

“ Bight. I see him.” 

“ That is Eusebia’s palanquin,” said Charmides, “ I rec- 
ognize it.” 

“ Aha ! But just look at our Annaeus Domitius ! I 
believe, by Juno, that he is catching a curtain lecture from 
his pretty wife, in the open market,” remarked one of the 
youths. 

“Hot to be wondered at,” replied another. 

“ I fancy, nevertheless, that they have reason on both 
sides to forgive each other. How is it, Charmides? Does 
the pious Eusebia continue her endeavors to convert you ? ” 

“ Ho,” answered Charmides, “ we both grew weary of 
the attempt. Eusebia is very fickle ” 

“ And you are fidelity itself ! ” 

“And she probably,” added Charmides, “has a more 
amiable proselyte in view.” 

“ Look ! Here is Myro at last ! Welcome you the 
fourth among the Graces ! ” 


38 


The Last Athenian. 


“ Welcome, beam of day, that never shone more brightly 
for our town,” declaimed Olympiodorus, and continued in 
spite of Myro’s fan, that threateningly circled in the neigh- 
borhood of his mouth, 

u Come, O Goddess, now and from torment’s heavy 
Bonds us loose ! Accomplish the prayer, which our hearts’ 
Tender longings bid thee accomplish ; — fondly 
Fight yet by our side.”* 

As Myro had arrived, the company was complete. The 
youths mounted their horses, the slaves lifted Praxinoa’s 
palanquin upon their shoulders and the procession set itself 
in motion. 

Let us leave it and repair to Annaeus Domitius, to hear 
how it went with the curtain lecture, about which one of 
Charmides’ friends was wicked enough to give his opinion. 

We approach Annaeus Domitius with that consideration 
which his social position should inspire. He is proconsul 
over Achaia, and the first in the second class of great dig- 
nitaries of the Roman Empire, with the right to be called 
illustris and clarissimus ; his genealogy includes the 
philosopher Seneca among its younger names, and estab- 
lishes his descent from a family already respected in the 
days of the Republic. His robe is worked with palm-leaf 
and stars ; the half-boots which indicate his senatorship, 
glisten with purple, and are decked, according to the custom 
of nobiles, with golden crescents, held to portray his high 
birth, which would entitle his soul after death to a place 
over the moon in the neighborhood of the stars, or since 
Annaeus is a Christian and such an interpretation unworthy 
of him, — rather convey a timely warning that under the 
moon, that ever-changing orb, dwelt no one free from fate. 
But enough, the crescents are there, and for their meaning, 
it may be whatever you like. Two slaves bore a censer 
with burning incense in the path of the proconsul, and 

* Sappho. 


The Last Athenian. 


89 


were now standing at a respectful distance, talking with 
Eusebia’s palanquin-bearers. Annaeus Domitius is a man 
< f forty, of* ordinary height, but more than ordinary flesh. 
His paunch would grace neither Hermes nor Apollo, but on 
the other hand would not misbecome an old Faun. The 
proconsul’s crown is bald, his face holds up the merry super- 
fluity of a double chin, and his eyes are lively and intelli- 
gent. Roue, gourmand, the calculating man of the world 
are all seen in him, if the light does not deceive us. The 
lines around the mouth still give evidence of the last sou- 
per, the lax features tell tales of nightly orgies or, — if one 
believe the proconsul’s own explanation to his wife, — of 
nightly studies, which, according to the same authority, 
embraced theology, and were conducted in the most pro- 
found secresy. But the profile of Annaeus is full of power, 
and the eyes are alone sufficient to give life and expression 
to this fat corporosity. 

But now a glance at his spouse Eusebia, called the “ beau- 
tiful,” and, yet oftener, the “ devout.” She is a Roman, of 
perhaps twenty-seven years, with an aquiline nose, large 
dark eyes, and little, pouting, ruby-red lips. Eusebia is on 
her way to church which she never neglects, when Peter, 
the orthodox, — that is to say at that time the Homoious- 
ian* bishop, the heart-piercing admonisher, the lightning 
rebuker, is to preach. Her costume is that of a penitent — 

* The Christian church at the time of this story was divided into 
two principal sects, which contended against each other. Homo- 
ousian and Hoinoiousian. It is not the fault of the author that 
these parties are to the sight only divided by a little i ; but in such 
a case it is an excusable pedantry if he beg the reader to give 
attention to this difference, otherwise so easily overlooked, so that 
the parties, be not to their mutual vexation, confounded with one 
another; I could indeed have called the former orthodox, a name to 
which they have the victor’s claim, and then have named the latter, 
Half-Arians. But the altar of victory, to the joy of all, is broken 
down, and no one is bound to offer on its ruins. (The Ho-mo- 
ousians maintained that the Son had the same essence with the 
Father, in opposition to the Ho-moi-ousians — who held that the 
Son was like the Father in essence but not the same. — Tr.) 


40 


The Last Athenian . 


and how well it becomes her, though not* consisting of a 
thread more than the black robe, falling ungirdled to her 
feet, and flowing so softly about her voluptuous form ! Not 
even a linen tunic under this garment ! Like a pall on a 
new-fallen snow-drift, its color contrasts with the alabaster of 
neck and arms, that Juno might have envied, not to speak 
of so charming a little nothing as a hare foot, peeping forth 
whenever its fair possessor turns herself on the cushions of 
the litter. Diadem, ear-rings, necklace, bracelets, rings, — 
all these vain frivolities, even to her jeweled fan, are left 
at home upon the toilet table. Eusebia’s dark locks flow 
in free waves around her shoulders, and her Angers, robbed 
of their diamonds, have no other ornament than their nat- 
ural beauty and the slight rosy tinge the toilet-pencil has 
given their nails. Her cheek, otherwise warmly colored by 
health and youth, is to-day somewhat pale, — for paleness 
becomes the penitent. Art has here, with a few light 
strokes of a pencil, dipped in white paint, fulfilled a desire, 
which nature, left to itself, for the moment could not satisfy. 

“ And so, Annaeus,” said Eusebia in a mild upbraiding 
tone, and her gaze floated out between the curtains of the 
litter towards the group awaiting Myro at the marble steps • 
“you were" last night also occupied with important business. 
Was it with affairs of state or with theology ?” 

“With theology? No, my Eusebia! With affairs of 
state ? yes, by Hercules,” affirmed the proconsul, adding 
in a tone of half despair, “ these affairs of state haunt me 
to death.” 

He took from his girdle a purple-bordered kerchief and 
wiped his forehead, as if the very thought of those exer- 
tions caused him to perspire. At the same time he cast a 
stolen glance towards his heathen friends, the Epicureans, 
where the two palanquins especially attracted his attention. 

“ Annaeus,” said Eusebia, shaking her finger, “ you still 
retain that awful vice of swearing by the heathen gods, — 
you, who are a catechumen.” 


The Last Athenian. 


41 


u 0 ! forgive me, Eusebia ! By the reliquaries of the 
saints, by the skeletons of the martyrs, I shall hereafter 
guard my tongue against this sin. Alas, dear Eusebia, 
when shall we return to our Corinth ! This Athens, in 
which the Emperor’s will retains me, this city, apparently 
so still, so quiet, so removed from busy pursuits, — ah ! you 
little know what is raging in our very midst. My soul is 
in a never ceasing ferment ! ” 

“Poor Annaeus!” said she, thinking as she looked 
toward Charmides who was mounting his horse. “How 
handsome he is though, the poor youth wandering in dark- 
ness.” 

“ I know,” continued she, “what you mean. We ortho- 
dox all know, and Peter does not hesitate to preach it from 
the pulpit. It is Chrysanteus, the heathen arclion, who is 
the chief root of this evil. Why do you not imprison him, 
a declared supporter of the rebellious Julian ? We all 
wonder at it.” 

“ Ah ! my pretty bride,” interrupted Annaeus, smiling 
and shaking his finger in turn, “ now you are breaking 
our agreement. No state affairs between us ! Do you 
remember ? ” 

“ The other root of this evil,” continued Eusebia, with 
displeasure,” is the Homoousians, those horrid heretics, 
who contend that the Son is of the same, eternal divine 
being as the Father. Is not this a blindness without a 
parallel.” 

“Oh! an incomprehensible blindness — and thoughtless- 
ness to boot,” chimed in the proconsul. “ How charming 
you are to-day, Eusebia ! ” and he caressed and kissed her 
hand. 

“ Annaeus,” . continued Eusebia,” is it true that the head 
of this heresy, Athanasius, has been seen in the neighbor- 
hood?” 

“ What do I know more than the rumor ? What can I 


42 


The Last Athenian. 


do more than to send orders to all officers in Achaia to pur- 
sue and arrest him ? Oh ! these state affairs, they are 
killing me — by degrees ! ” 

“ Poor, dear Annaeus ! — Yet tell me,” whispered Eusebia, 
bending her head nearer his — “did you not last night 
receive a message from Constantinople ? ” 

“Yes, Eusebia,” answered he in the same tone, laying 
his forefinger on his lips. 

Eusebia knew this before, for the courier had sought the 
proconsul at his home, before being shown by a trusty 
waiting slave to the house, where the proconsul supped with 
his friends, Charmides, Olympiodorus and the courtesans. 
But what Eusebia did not know, and most anxiously wished 
to ascertain, was, the contents of the letter. 

“ Well? ” she asked, in the greatest eagerness : 

“ J ulian — But silence for Heaven’s sake, Eusebia ! ” 

“ But quick ! — How fares it with the godless usurper ? ” 

“ Uproar among his troops ! Two Gallic legions have 
gone over to the flag of Christendom and Constantius. 
But I adjure you, Eusebia, preserve this secret in the 
depths of your soul ! ” 

The beautiful penitent clasped her hands and raised a 
thankful glance to heaven. 

When the proconsul entrusted his wife with this news, 
he well knew, that within a few hours it would be imparted 
to the bishop Peter. He told her for this very reason. 

“ And now, my Annseus, I presume you are on your way 
to church to praise the Lord and pray for the continned 
success of the imperial arms.” 

“ I acknowledge this, Eusebia, both as my duty and 
desire. But the business of State, ah me, the business of 
State ! ” 

The proconsul looked around and gave a signal to a man 
standing near. 

“ Poor fellow ! I will not detain you.” 


The Last Athenian . 


43 


“ Fair one ! Thy gaze is my delight, but it is sadly 
true, that for the moment I am exceedingly hurried, — and 
you also should hasten, for I already see the bishop and 
clerks yonder.” 

Eusebia peeped out through the palanquin. She sought 
some one in the crowd of priests who in solemn procession 
followed the bishop to church. She doubtless found him 
she sought, for the light in her dark eye melted suddenly 
into a tearful gleam, a sigh heaved her bosom, and dreamily 
she sank upon the cushions of the litter. A moment after 
her bell gave the signal to the bearers to set themselves in 
motion. 

As soon as the proconsul was left alone, he beckoned to 
the man, waiting close by, who thrust a letter into his 
hand. 

“ Where ? ” enquired the proconsul. 

u Half way between Athens and Corinth.” 

“ Go!” 

The proconsul loosened with his stylus the band on which 
the seal was stamped, and glanced hastily over the address : 

“ To Peter, bishop of Athens, brotherly greeting 

AND THE PEACE OF THE FATHER, AS WELL AS OF 

THE Son, of a like, but not of the same being 

with the Father. 

Then he pressed the letter into the girdle under his 
mantle, arranged the latter, and was on the point of start- 
ing, when bishop Peter, who rode upon a mule in front 
of his priests, nodded and raised the cross he bore in his 
hand, to indicate that he wished to speak with the procon- 
sul. Another signal to the clerks commanded them to 
retire. The proconsul hastened with elastic step, the two 
incense burners in his wake, to meet the prelate half way. 

Peter the Homoiousian bishop, was yet in the prime of 
life — a broad-shouldered, lean, sinewy, figure, with head 


44 


The Last Athenian. 


erect, and strength of will and thirst for power stamped on 
every feature. Such a man had sat the war-horse better 
than the mule. Peter’s forehead was low and square, his 
look sharp and penetrating, eyebrows extended and deeply 
arched, nose Roman and well-proportioned, mouth large, 
but symmetrical. What a contrast between this man, 
raised to his present position from the lowest class of the 
people, and the patrician Annaeus Domitius ! The pro- 
consul looked little and ridiculous, as, in his showy uni- 
form, with bald head, bloated face, double chin, huge 
paunch, and calves shaped like a woman’s, he stood before 
Peter, bishop of Athens. The case approached equality 
however, when you noticed the Roman’s calm, man-of-the- 
world address, his playful, self-conscious look, and the fine 
smile on his lips. 

“ Illustrious and noble master,” said Peter in a tone 
whose abstraction balanced the humility of the phrase, 
“ May I have the honor of beholding you under my roof 
this morning, or will you permit your unworthy servant to 
visit you at the same hour ? The times are bad. This in- 
sane enterprise of Julian has raised the courage of both 
heretics and heathen to a fearful pitch. There is much 
that invites our united consideration.” 

The proconsul admitted this with a thoughtful shake of 
the head and hastened to declare that he should be present 
wherever the bishop’s favor and his own duty called him. 
After exchanging greetings, Peter again started his mule, 
followed by the clerks. The proconsul departed in the op- 
posite direction across the market. 

The Epicureans, whom we left just now, were greeted 
on their way through the long street Ceramicus by both 
friends and strangers, among the crowds who swarmed 
about the conversation-halls and porticoes. But there were 
also many who crossed themselves and took another street 
when they caught sight of the wanton procession. 


The Last Athenian. 45 

“ Noble, genuine Athenians ! It does my heart good to 
see them ! ” said an old half-starved athlete. 

“ I knew them ! Hellenes of the old stock, who love art 
and the faith of their fathers ! ” cried a sculptor in a 
threadbare mantle, and clapped his hands. 

“That one on the gray charger, there, — he who is laugh- 
ing so heartily and jesting with the courtesans — guess who 
he is ! ” said a bookseller, turning towards a Roman youth, 
who was by accident his neighbor. “ Yes sir, no less a per- 
sonage than Olympiodorus, the immortal poet ! It was I 
who published his first epigrams. They sold poorly, for the 
world is in its decline, and literature despised. But I com- 
plain not, no, not I ! The muses still find lofty benefactors. 
And as I have accidentally a bran-new copy of these 
admired epigrams with me,” — the bookseller here drew forth 
a littte roll from under his robe, — “ I shall present them 
with pleasure to a noble stranger — the price according to 
his wish and judgment.” 

The Roman said nothing, but beckoned to a slave, who 
took and paid for the roll ; he then retired from the neigh- 
borhood of the importunate publisher. 

“The splendid fellows,” exclaimed one flower-girl to 
another, as she lifted her veil and gazed after the riders. 
“ Hid you see Charmides, my friend ? did you see him ? ” 

“ Hemophilus,” said a citizen to his comrade, “ do you see 
the cloud over the temple of Theseus ? ” 

“I see no cloud, my friend ; the heavens are perfectly 
clear.” 

“Well, then, listen ! ” 

With a nod the citizen directed his friend’s attention to 
two persons near by. One was an old man, who with a 
basket on his arm had sat himself down on the steps of the 
portico to rest ; the other a Christian presbyter. The latter 
addressed the former as follows ; 

“ You are Bathyllus, the olive merchant.” 

3 


46 


The Last Athenian. 


« Yes.” 

“ You are esteemed a pious man, yet I never saw you at 
churcli. How is this ? ” 

“ I am orthodox. Long has God’s house been profaned 
by those who halt between the truth of the Word and the 
lie of the Arians.” 

“ You are then one of those who split in twain the only 
true church, and tear asunder the limbs of the Lord. 
Foresee ye not the day of retribution ? ” 

“ Day of martyrs, day of victory ! ” answered the old 
man, in so loud a voice that he attracted the attention of 
the by-standers. Homoiousian beat a retreat. 

“ Demophilus, do you see the cloud now ? ” 

u Yes. The air is stifling, we shall have thunder.” 

“ It is welcome if it only clears the air.” 

“ My Clinias,” whispered Demophilus, “ it is rumored 
that Julian — ” 

“ Hush, man ! ” interrupted Clinias in a like voice, look- 
ing about him with a terrified gaze. “ Speak not his name, 
if you value your head ! The Emperor employs a hundred 
thousand spies. The walls have ears, the reeds tell tales, 
as in the days of Midas, the very moon allows herself to be 
sworn, in order to betray what she reads in your eyes. 
Speak not, hope not, think not, as you love the rosy light 
of day ! ” 


CHAPTER III. 

DELPHI. THE ORACLE-SEEKERS. 

The far-famed oracle of Apollo was situated in a valley 
shut in on three sides by Mount Parnassus. The tract is 
wild and awful — and must have been still more so to a 


The Last Athenian. 


47 


pilgrim who trod it for the first time, trembling with the 
consciousness of approaching a mysterious, divine or demo- 
niac power, and uncertain how the vapor from the Pythian 
fissure would shape his future. To such a stranger, nature 
herself was a warning cry, not thoughtlessly to seek out 
the fates, lying in wait for him nearer the grave. Up 
towards the south the valley narrows, the cliffs become 
loftier and more precipitous with wilder forms, the nearer you 
approach the point where the valley walls run together at 
an acute angle. Here, shaded by cypresses, Castalia springs 
in three streams, from the rock. This oft-sung fountain 
feeds a brook, which, after lonely wanderings through the 
dale, unites its fate with the river Pleistus, and with it finds 
a common grave in the gulf of Corinth. Along this brook 
lay the way to the oracle. 

One autumn evening, in the year 361, according to our 
reckoning, there passed along the temple road an old man 
and a young girl, who side by side directed their course 
into the valley. Both were clad in white, and would have 
been taken for pilgrims, had not the oracle been silenced 
more than thirty years before by the edict of the first 
Christian Emperor, and all pilgrimages to Delphi since 
then ceased. They were strangers in this region, judging 
from their looks and gestures, which betrayed, that the 
objects they here met were new, or at least uncommon. 
The girl regarded with amazement the frowning crags, on 
either side, baring themselves against the heavens, and 
shuddered perhaps at the profound silence, deepened, rather 
than broken by the tinkling of the brook and the cicada’s 
complaining song. The other senses were laid at rest, 
while the eye filled the soul with pictures of an awful 
nature. 

The road, once swarming with ambassadors from cities 
and kings, with pilgrims and sacrificial processions, — how 
desolate now ! Grass and mosses covered it ; the myrtle 


48 


The Last Athenian. 


shot up leaflets in the cracks of its stones. It was shunned 
even by the inhabitants of the valley, who chose another 
road nearer the city of Delphi, the country at that time 
being disturbed by robbers, who had their haunts among 
the almost inaccessible defiles of Mount Parnassus. Both 
the strangers knew this, but they were occupied with 
thoughts which excluded .apprehension for their own safety. 

There was a striking resemblance between the man and 
his companion, in spite of the difference in years. The 
Grecian profile was common to both, and in both it was 
softened, though in different degrees, by the same individ- 
ual deviations. It was hard to judge the man’s age from 
his appearance. His limbs yet gave evidence of manly 
power, but the lines of his face were deepened by years, 
and — what soonest betrayed that he had passed beyond 
middle age, but at the same time gave a remarkable expres- 
sion to his countenance, — the roll under the outward point 
of the eyebrows protruded in uncommon width, and laid a 
stroke of energy between the forehead’s dignity and the 
almost ecstasy in his glance. This feature is yet seen in 
antique statues of Nestor and Agamemnon. 

The hair was somewhat thin over his forehead, and the 
heard, — at that time a rare ornament, — dark brown, and 
curly like the hair, flowed around his lips and cheeks. His 
figure was tall and majestic. The girl’s features were more 
regular than her companion’s, — regular even to typical 
strictness, which was heightened by the clear, transparent 
yet fresh paleness in her complexion. She resembled a 
marble statue ; hut the marble was warmed by the mild 
light of those large blue eyes, and enlivened by the fine 
curving lines of her mouth, which with a Lavater would 
have passed for an infallible sign of goodness of heart. 

“ Hennione,” said the man to the girl at his side, “ that 
mountain top, piercing the sky, clad in the blue robe of dis- 
tance, is Lycorea. Upon it and its sister-heights, Apollo 


The Last Athenian. 


49 


and the goddesses of song were wont to roam, before doubt 
had hunted them away. The silver clouds that crown it, 
were then launches from the isles of the blest, landing 
happy spirits, who came to hear in the Olympic songs, and 
in their dances symbolically to see, the mysteries of the 
Universe. 

These songs, so runs the tale, were heard on still evenings 
like this, down in the dale, and at their tones peace sank 
into the listening heart, — 

“ And now,” said the man to himself, “ are prowling 
around the same heights the unhappy children of men, 
murderers and Christians fanatics, thrust out of a religious 
community, worthy of them. Robbers on Parnassus ! 
Such there were indeed before these, but they robbed only 
the poets.” 

A smile played upon the man’s lips at this thought. 

“ Father,” said the girl, “ these cliffs would frighten me 
were I alone. They are so high and deeply riven. But 
the eye is refreshed by Lycorea, for on it the sun sheds its 
rays, and the heavens are clear and calm about its brow.” 

“ So it is. When our surroundings are dark and sad, 
the eye gladly seeks a brighter future. Hermione,” con- 
tinued he pointing to the left, “ down there rests the an- 
cient city Delphi, sung by Homer under the name Pytho. 
How are its thousand statues broken, its treasures robbed, its 
splendor departed. The theatre, race course, halls of learn- 
ing and gymnasiums are empty. The Christians, Hermi- 
one, hate the high expression of art, as much as the deep 
seriousness of investigation. They talk of poverty and 
plunder our temples, — of humility and trample upon our 
necks. These streets once resounded with paeans, 
swarmed with holiday-clad strangers and white-robed 
priests. Now a stupid people walk over its market-place. 
The field, you see there, with languishing verdure, sign of 
scanty cultivation, that lacks arms and brains, is the plain 


50 


The Last Athenian. 


of Crisa, where once the Grecian crowds assembled to wit- 
ness the victory of genius, strength and beauty.” 

The stroke of the hammer sounded from the city. They 
were breaking out stone from a colonnade there, for a Chris- 
tian church that was building. It was that colonnade, upon 
whose walls Polygnotus, the Homer of the pencil, had 
painted the sack of Troy, the departure of the Greeks and 
Ulysses’ visit to Avernus. The destruction could be seen 
from the point the two strangers were passing. They saw 
it ; the girl hid her face in her veil ; the man clasped her 
hand and hastened their steps. 

Thus they entered an ancient laurel grove, which sepa- 
rated the city from the oracle. The grove filled the deepest 
part of the valley between the steeps of Parnassus, and 
with its dark verdure increased the gloom. It was sa- 
cred to Apollo, and the garlands for the poets of Greece and 
the winners of the Pythian victory were plucked here. 
Its old trunks leaned over the brook, gathered themselves 
together into whispering groups, and plaited their tops into 
a dark vault, in whose shadow one communed with lofty 
thoughts. And art had come to meet this communion. 
Whenever a ray of sun-light shot under the trees, it shone 
for a moment upon the marble forehead of a Homer, who, 
seized by inspiration, upturned his sightless eyes to Heaven, 
or on a group of dryads pressing about a cithara-playing 
Orpheus. The grove was now shunned by many as the 
haunt of a heathen demon, and the fresh leaves it put 
forth every year, found no forehead to adorn, for the gym- 
nasiums lacked their old champions ; and where inspira- 
tion yet filled a poet’s bosom, hymns resounded to Him, 
“ the unknown God,” of v r hom Paul once spoke to the peo- 
ple of Athens. 

It was now silent in the grove, w r hile Hermione and her 
father passed through it. It had been silent ever since 
men deserted it — was silent for centuries, while Delphi 


The Last Athenian . 51 

slowly decayed, and against its fallen pillars the mud huts 
of the village Castris sought a support. 

But one day, twelve hundred years nearer us than the 
time of this story, the women of Castris saw, as they 
washed their clothes in the fountain Castalia, some 
strangers in the wasted grove. What sought they in that 
forgotten nook among the mountains ? They said in a 
tongue unknown to the women, that Castalia was pro- 
faned, and breaking a few twigs from an old laurel, 
kissed them and went their way. The strange men were 
from Borne. The Roman people had determined that a poet, 
Tasso by name, should be crowned with laurel on the Capi- 
tolium, and although laurel grew in their own groves, they 
yet went forth to bring it from Parnassus. Was the broken 
chain between the past and the present then reunited? 
Yes, a great revolution had taken place, though the good, 
half-wild people of Castris dreamed it not. Greece had ex- 
perienced a resurrection in the spirit of freedom, art and 
science. Science and art are by their nature incontroverti- 
bly heathen. They reverence the olive of Golgotha, but 
the laurel of Parnassus is the symbol of their strife and 
victory. 

The white-clad wayfarers, father and daughter, ascended 
a hill at the foot of one of the valley walls by a flight of 
fallen stone steps, and now saw the temple of the oracle 
reposing beneath dark Alpine steeps. An aged priest of 
Apollo, the only one remaining of a hundred, watched its 
paling splendor. They came upon him resting under a 
cypress and staring at a mysterious E, some man of the 
past had graven over the entrance to the temple. The 
sunset hues of departing life shimmered through his sunken 
cheeks, and his beard fell in white waves over his breast. 
The pilgrims, for such indeed they were, greeted him rev- 
erentially. 

“ My name is Chrysanteus,” said the stranger ; “lama 


52 


The Last Athenian. 


man of Athens. This girl is my daughter Hermione, for 
the last sixteen years my only child.” 

“ I bid you welcome,” said the priest of Apollo, Herac- 
leon. “ Is your errand to see the sanctuary ? ” 

“ No,” answered Chrysanteus, “ our errand is another 
than sight-seeing, — that would only fill us with grief. We 
have come to consult the oracle.” 

The old priest’s countenance expressed astonishment. 
“ Know you not,” said he, “ that the Pythia’s voice is 
silenced and the fountain of prophetic vapor dried up? 
The last priestess is long since dead.” 

“ Alas ! I know it all too well,” replied Chrysanteus. 
“But though the Pythia is dead, the god of prophecy lives 
eternally.” 

“ Apollo is dead ! ” contradicted Heracleon, and fas- 
tened on Chrysanteus a look, whose mystic expression 
heightened the effect of these strange and unexpected 
words, uttered with a tone of full conviction. The old 
man’s eye revealed a soul, which oftenest dwells within 
itself, but when drawn from self-contemplation to outward 
objects, rather embraces them in a single picture than 
engages itself with each separate phenomenon. Such a 
look is peculiar to theosophists and mystics. There is 
something ghostly and awful in it for the children of this 
world; it reminds us of death and compels a belief in 
immortality. It betrays also a something lying beyond the 
range of reason, on the borders of madness. Perhaps it 
was just this that Chrysanteus found in the old man’s look, 
— by which he explained the answer he gave. The archon 
of Athens felt a shudder creeping over him. He was silent 
a moment, and then said in a mild tone, penetrated with 
P%> 

“ I leave your faith upon its grounds. But may we not 
all, like Socrates, bear an oracle in our own bosoms ? ” 

“ If so, why come you here to consult the dumb ? ” 


The Last Athenian. 


53 


“ He who will dream seeks silence, solitude and darkness, 
not tumult, the human throng and light of day. So also he 
who will speak with God in prayer, and perceive His answer 
in inspiration. Silence for the outward ear is not enough 
for him, neither darkness for the outward eye. Every 
earthly sound must be attuned to feeling, and every earthly 
figure blotted out by fancy; for feeling is the ear of the 
soul, and fancy its eye, with which it perceives the god-like. 
But where can I find a spot, that like this impresses the 
feeling with the majesty of a thousand years of sacred 
observation, or seizes upon the fancy with its loneliness and 
the lofty symbolism in its nature ? For this, Heracleon, 
come we here, I and my daughter.” 

“Well, how can I meet your wishes?” 

“My daughter is a pious young woman. Let her un- 
dergo the corporeal purifications, which assist the soul’s 
endeavor to free itself from earthly thoughts and become fit 
to receive the heavenly. After this, lead Hermione to the 
holy tripod and let her remain one night in the temple.” 

Hermione, who had attentively listened to the conversa- 
tion, now said: “Venerable man, pray grant my father’s 
request.” 

The priest of Apollo reflected a moment and then 
answered, 

“ If this be your intention, Athenian, that your daughter 
herself shall be at once the inquirer, the inspired receiver 
and the expounder of the meaning of the inspiration, then 
my office is unnecessary, and I do not disobey the Emperor’s 
command, if I for you, as for any sight -seer, open the 
temple doors. You yourself, Chrysanteus, may lead your 
daughter to the tripod. As to the oracle you would con- 
sult, it matters not who performs this duty, and as to the 
purification, if your daughter will follow the prescribed 
custom, she will bathe in the fountain Cassotis, pass one 
day in fasting and meditation, and when she comes to the 


54 


The Last Athenian. 


tripod, drink a cup of the water of Castalia. My maid 
will instruct and assist her in these preparations. During 
this time you will be my guests. For many long months 
I have not beheld a strange face ; I live here in a world of 
my own and hide death in the shadow of my temple. But 
all the dearer to me is the sight of a man like you, and a 
woman, such as your daughter. Follow me, I bid you wel- 
come across my threshold.” 

Old Heracleon extended his hand to Hermione and con- 
ducted his guests to a room, in a building near the temple. 
His aged maid-servant, the only being who shared his soli- 
tude, made couches ready for Chrysanteus and Hermione, 
washed their feet and set a table for them with bread, milk 
and fruit. Neither did she forget to plait garlands of fresh 
flowers, to deck the guests at this simple meal. 

It was already growing dusky in the room, whose only 
window faced the cliff, close by. The conversation during 
their repast, fell upon the band of robbers that disturbed 
the neighborhood. The old priest knew nothing further 
than that these robbers were Christians of some sort, 
hated by the other Christian sects; that they were not 
natives of the country, but hither come, one knew not how 
nor whence, and that one day, during the last Spring, they 
suddenly appeared in considerable numbers, and demanded 
of him the temple keys. They did him and his maid no 
wrong, only damaged some things in the temple, which 
itself possessed no longer anything that could satisfy their 
rapacity. The Emperor Constantine in this case had long 
ago anticipated them, when he carried away the last of the 
countless riches the sanctuary once possessed. The old man 
narrated this last circumstance in a tone devoid of bitter- 
ness. Age had perhaps chilled his heart. But the Athen- 
ian’s countenance darkened, and he scarcely listened to the 
old servant, who now took up the story and related, that 
the robber-band had many times made nightly irruptions 


The Last Athenian. 


55 


into the neighboring city, taken much booty and murdered 
many people. But a troop of soldiers had now arrived 
from Corinth for the protection of Delphi. The old servant 
knew this, being accustomed to visit the city for a few 
necessary articles — a thing her master never did. 

Supper being finished, they left the room to enjoy the 
paling beauty of evening in the open air. Heracleon 
' escorted his guests to a grotto, a few steps from the temple. 
The brook murmured near. The grotto was open toward 
the west, and the evening sun, shining through a narrow 
vista opposite, shot his rosy rays into its shadows. Cypress, 
myrtle and wild rose grew around, ivy and honeysuckle 
twined about its walls. Here upon a mossy bank at the 
entrance of the grotto, the priest of Apollo, the archon of 
Athens and his daughter seated themselves. 

Hermione spoke : — “ Do you remember, Heracleon, if the 
oracle, while it yet responded, ever expressed itself about 
"Him, from whom the Christians take their name ?” 

The old man’s countenance brightened, as if it pleased 
him to answer this question. He replied, u hear the follow- 
ing response of Apollo, given to a man, who more than a 
hundred years ago arrived here and questioned the oracle 
on this very Jesus.” 

“ Known by the wise it is, that from body’s corruptible fetters 

Raises itself immortal the human spirit, but never 

Soul to Olympia flew borne aloft upon pinions more spotless.” 

“ When the seeker wondered, that so noble a man should 
suffer a malefactor’s death, the answer came through the 
Pythia— 

“ ‘ ’Tis not bodily woe defiles the spirit immortal: 

Suffering is common to all, but only the pious win heaven.’ ” 

“ I know these responses,” said Chrysanteus. “ Porphy- 
rius cites them in his book against the Christians.” 

“ Is this all the oracle has spoken upon the wise teacher 
of Galliee ? ” asked Hermione. 


56 The Last Athenian. 

u No, we have yet another response of a much later 
date.” 

“ Stung by the worm, or withered by sun, or turned in the night- 
frost 

Sere, or doomed while yet in the bud all blighted to perish, 

Lo ! on the world-tree each leaf, but one of all only is perfect. 

“ Apollo,” continued Heracleon, “was beautiful in person, 
but as seer was also called the Wry-mouth, because he was 
wont now in direct, now in ambiguous phrase, to repel im- 
portunate curiosity. But this much at least is clear, — the 
oracle never cherished the least ill will toward Jesus. No 
one, not even Socrates, has been so praised by Apollo as 
the wise man of Judea.” 

“ He was,” said Chrysanteus, “ a religious soul, deeply 
imbued with the divine, a practical teacher of wisdom and 
great theurgist.” Porphyrius relates of his master Plotinus, 
that, four times in a state of ecstasy, he beheld the only and 
true God. This happened in his old age, toward the close of 
a life whose whole desire was the ideal world and purity of 
bouI. I consider that what Plotinus attained by sinking 
his soul in the boundless sea of unconsciousness, the son of 
Joseph possessed more by nature, and as an ever present 
power, so that he was able to go among men and work out- 
wardly, without clouding his vision of the divine. 

What he possessed in the highest degree, may we all in 
a lower. The lotus seems to rock freely on the wave, but the 
stem finds its way through the deep and is fast rooted in 
the bottom. So swings the human soul with circumscribed 
freedom on the surface of the sea of life ; reason is the 
flower which opens itself to the sun and follows his course, 
but it is with two roots, feeling and fancy, held fast in the 
world’s soul, — Apollo, or whatever you may call it. Through 
these, God enters into us ; with them, as with a trumpet, he 
speaks into our souls and reveals himself in many forms ; 
as the voice of conscience, as the inspiration of the artist, 


The Last Athenian. 


57 


as presage and prophecy. That the first cause of these 
perceptions is- not in the individual mortal but is something 
universal, namely, God in his revelation as the world’s soul, 
is discerned in the fact that the essential principles of the 
law of conscience are the same among all tribes and peoples, 
and that the work of the artist, though with varying excel- 
lence and from different sides, mirrors the same idea.” 

When Chrysanteus ceased, and old Heracleon, who had 
smilingly listened, did not seem inclined to reply, Hermione 
modestly added. 

“ It reveals itself also in the heavenly glow which per- 
vades the soul when it is touched b}^ anything beautiful, 
true and good. But differences can he explained by the 
different disposition of heart among men, as two flowers, 
growing side by side on the same mound, and receiving 
thence the same nourishment, assimilate it each in unison 
with its own nature, and exhale it, m fragrant, yet different 
odor'. Is it not so, father?” 

Chrysanteus smiled approvingly, placed his arm around 
his daughter’s neck and kissed her forehead. 

When the sun had gone down, Heracleon returned with 
the guests to his dwelling. Hermione leaving them here, 
followed the old house maid, — for the girl was to bathe in 
Cassotis that evening, and make other preparations for the 
approaching night, to be passed in meditation and prayer. 
The following day was in like manner to be devoted to 
bathing, fasting and solitary meditation, until twilight. 
Then Hermione would be led by her father, to the Pythian 
tripod, which stood over the aperture for the prophetic 
vapor, and remain through the night alone in the temple, 
awaiting the revelation. 

When the men found themselves alone with each other 
in the little chamber, resting on their couches, with the 
lighted lamp between, Chrysanteus requested an explana- 
tion of the strange words his host had uttered respecting 
Apollo’s death. 


58 


The Last Athenian. 


Heracleon was willing to give sucli an explanation, and 
it now appeared that, driven by his soul’s necessity, he had 
built up a theosophic system of his own, which afforded the 
consolation he needed, for the ruin of a faith he had em- 
braced with religious fervor and served since his boyhood. 
Loving its memory, and worshiping the fallen greatness in 
whose service he had labored, he could, since his doctrine 
reconciled him with fate, die happy and in peace, the last 
priest of Apollo, gazing upon his deserted temple. 

Heracleon said : 

u In the spirit world, of which the visible, as Plato says, 
is but the shadow, a great change had already taken place 
at the time of the life of Jesus. Of this change we know 
but little, for when the shadow- throwing object undergoes 
a modification, the shadow is also altered, but it reproduces 
only the outlines of the object, and even these imperfectly. 
What I allude to, will become clearer to you, from what I 
am about to relate. I have sought and noted many mys- 
terious incidents, bearing witness of this revolution in the 
spirit world ; of these however I will mention only the fol- 
lowing : 

“ Epitherses,* father of iEmilianus the rhetorician, once 
sailed to Italy in a ship, which bore a goodly freight of 
souls and the riches of commerce. When they had arrived 
off the Echinades, the wind died into a calm. It was eve- 
ning, though most of the crew and passengers were yet 
awake, when suddenly all heard a voice, coming as they 
thought from Paxos ; calling the mate by name. He was 
one Thasus, an Egyptian. All were amazed, and Thasus 
himself seized with fear. It was not until the voice had 
sounded thrice, that he gained courage to reply ; whereupon 
in yet louder tones came this command : 4 when you reach 
the place Palodes, announce that the great Pan is dead ! 9 
The astonishment of all was increased and they took coun- 
* This story is found in Plutarch. 


The Last Athenian. 


59 


sel together, what had better be done. Thasus himself 
determined that, in case of a good wind, he would take no 
further thought of the matter, and press by Palodes ; but 
were a calm to settle down, he would cry out what he had 
heard. Now when the ship arrived off Palodes, a calm fell 
upon the sea ; wherefore Thasus, standing in the stern of his 
vessel, shouted towards the land, the words of the unknown 
voice : ‘ the great Pan is dead ! ’ Scarcely was this uttered 
when the air was filled with sighs, betokening amazement 
as well as sorrow. The event was soon made known at 
Pome by many who had witnessed it, and the Emperor 
Tiberius had Thasus called before him, and instituted a 
close inquiry touching this strange occurrence, its probable 
causes and import.” 

“ A similar incident,” continued Heracleon, u befell the 
grammarian Demetrius, in his voyage of discovery around 
the British Isles. With these I connect the rumor, flying 
around the world at the time of Jesus and exciting great 
interest at Borne, — that the Phoenix had again showed her- 
self in Egypt ; * also the circumstance that from the same 
time, the perpetual fire in the temple of the Egj r ptian Am- 
mon has needed a less measure of oil for its yearly mainte- 
nance than before.f Little things, Chrysanteus, can indicate 
a very great change. But evidence, still clearer than this, 
may be found. Such I see in the fact, that the prophetic 
power more and more departed from this oracle, long before 
the Christians became a mighty sect, and that all the other 
countless oracles, one after the other, grew dumb of them- 
selves ; also in that the faith in the gods died in many 
hearts, and poets and artists did not receive inspiration as 
before, while awful calamities, following close in each 
other’s steps, went round the world, wasting the race of 
men. Our entire Hellas, I find it written, cannot now pro- 

* Tacitus. 

t Plutarch. 


60 


The Last Athenian. 


duce so many heavy-armed warriors, as once the little 
Megara sent against the Persians. Do you not notice 
that something is lacking, that some hand which once was 
open, has now closed its iron grasp over the world ? Can 
you say what were the walls that once held the unknown 
hordes of the East within their certain boundaries, and 
why these walls so suddenly have fallen ? Whence this 
longing, that has seized the sons of the desert, driving 
them, wave on wave, to be crushed against the iron of our 
legions? Will they not at last break down this barrier 
and overflow us ? Can you say, why our woods and foun- 
tains do not sigh as of yore, why nature’s symbols have 
suddenly frozen to soulless things, where no divine power 
reveals itself? The indescribable and imcomprehensible, 
which once breathed through nature, — this something we 
called the great Pan that, like a flute-tone, enlivened soli- 
tude, — this is gone. It rose as a mist from the earth, 
raised itself higher and higher, and vanished in space. 
When it deserted Earth, the voices from the Pythian orifice 
and the grotto of Trophonius grew weaker, for the inde- 
scribable power had left the depths of earth, and floated 
now over its surface, entering into the souls of men. 
In this way I explain the phenomenon, that the world 
became at once filled with wizards, sibyls, magi, theurgists, 
goets and wonder-workers, among whom Apollonius of 
Tyana was the greatest. They were before almost un- 
known, and always solitary; now they flooded all lands. 
Prom Ctesiphon to the pillars of Hercules, the people 
beheld their miracles, till at last the indescribable power 
departed even from among men. These are the signs I 
have noticed in the shadow , and by which I am con- 
vinced of a great change in the thing. But in what does 
this change consist, and whence comes it ? This question 
has occupied my soul through the long years I have passed 
here in seclusion. And when I had striven for ten years, 


The Last Athenian. 


61 


ay ! for twenty, trying many different ways to enter into 
this secret, I was compelled at last to accept the conjec- 
ture presenting itself to me at the first moment of my 
reflections, but which I then cast aside as low and unp'iilo- 
sophieal. 

“ The laws of nature, — such is my opinion — ruling in the 
world of man, are shadows of those in the spirit-world and 
find in them their analogy. The law ordaining man to be 
born, to grow and to die, is a shadow of that law under 
which the Olympians were placed. They have, though in 
a higher meaning than man, been born — the fable itself 
says this — they have grown old, and they are dead. The 
great Pan is dead, Apollo is dead, the beings our fathers 
worshiped are dead. Start not, Chrysanteus, at my words! 
They contain nothing blasphemous. These beings, good 
and worthy of worship, who filled the world with beauty 
and gladness, who loved the virtuous, protected communi- 
ties and punished the guilty, were mortal as man, their 
ward, and immovtat as he. Oh ! did I not lie, when but a 
youth, before the statue of my Apollo, and gaze whole hours 
in his face, transported by his calm, superhuman beauty ! 
And yet my tears ran ; for the longer I regarded him, the 
more meltingly there came shimmering through his beautjr 
a woe, Olympian and superhuman as himself, and I won- 
dered if the artist had consciously placed this expression in 
his work, or if it necessarily, without the artist’s intention, 
accompanies the highest beauty expressible in form. 

“ I know now the meaning of that expression ; it was the 
consciousness of mortality. The Olympians were a race 
higher than ours: our fathers called them gods, you phi- 
losophers call them more properly powers or demons. As 
they directed the first education of man, their constant duty 
was to arrange our race in communities, teach them the 
right and awaken them to the beautiful. From this occu- 
pation they are called away ; for us they are found no more, 
4 


62 


The Last Athenian. 


they have returned to the bosom that bore them, the foun- 
tain of all, the central point of existence : the only, true 
God. Banished be the thought that the gods, on whose 
knees our pious fathers laid their prayers, whom they cried 
to in their sorrow and praised in their joy, were empty 
creatures of their own imagination. But that they were 
mortal, there existed even in the gray past a foreboding, to 
which Hesiod gave outward form in these words of a naiad, 

“ Nine generations of powerful men the loud-cawing crow sees 
Flourish, but three times as many behold those light-footed red 
deer. 

Thrice the age of the deer is the life of the ill-boding raven, 

Nine ravens’ lives has the Phoenix, whom burnt ten times we see 
rising. 

We of the almighty Zeus the fair-haired sorrow-free daughters.” 

“ So spoke the priest of Apollo, with the light of the lamp 
flaring upon his withered visage. His guest had listened 
with attention, but would not now prolong the conversation 
with any counter remarks, as the night was already far 
spent, and the old man needed rest*” 



CHAPTER IV. 

CHKYS ANTEUS. 

In the first chapter of this story the reader will recollect 
that a man walked across the market place of Athens one 
fine morning while the chaffering crowd was most active, 
and was pointed out by different persons as the rich Chry- 
santeus, — the philosopher Chrysanteus, — Chrysanteus the 
arch-heathen. It is the same man we now see at Delphi, 
breaking the solitude of the last priest of Apollo. He 
merited all three of the titles just given, not least the last. 
That Chrysanteus was the richest man in Athens, indicated 


The Last Athenian. 


63 


at that time perhaps nothing extraordinary ; it is much 
more striking to mention the fact that were he to exchange 
this Athens for the luxurious Babel on the Tiber, or her 
glittering young rival on the Bosphorus, and there enter 
upon a life according to his means and the custom of the. 
times, he would hardly he overshadowed in sumptuous lux- 
ury by others than the imperial favorites and the Christian 
bishops. We do not speak of the court itself and its 
colossal magnificence, which naturally stood above compari- 
son with the attempts of any private individual. But 
Chrysanteus was entirely inaccessible to any ambition of 
this sort. He remained in Athens, though his reason for 
this was not a Caesar’s pride, to be first in a village, rather 
than second at Borne. In Athens itself, many outshone 
him in splendor and cheer. 

But how did he employ his riches, since there was none 
of that Asiatic luxury in his house, with which the nobles 
at that time surrounded themselves ? Every Athenian 
could answer this question. They knew that his sagacity 
had found a thousand other ways of using his wealth. His 
prodigality- was entirely peculiar to himself. The country 
about Athens had formerly been famed for its olive planta- 
tions. Attica’s mountain slopes were then clad with woods 
of this noble and useful tree* sacred, it is well known, to 
Pallas Athene. At the time of Chrysanteus these woods 
had almost vanished, and Attica had lost her principal 
source of income. He wished to flood his country with 
new abundance; and he fought without tiring, a giant 
strife against nature, man and circumstance, to restore 
to the naked hills their ornament, and to the wretched 
inhabitants their prosperity. The contest had now gone 
on for twenty years, and Chrysanteus was still unwearied, 
encouraged in fact rather than cast down by the com- 
paratively paltry results of his exertions. The land around 
Athens, which, during the independence and glory of 


64 


The Last Athenian. 


the city, had commanded a high price, now lay in large 
tracts desolate. lie bought up stich deserted fields, placed 
his freed slaves upon them as tenants, and had the pleasure 
of seeing harvests wave, where before was scarcely a sheep- 
pasture. But this pleasure was almost his only rent, for 
the proconsul Annseus Domitius certainly understood from 
‘ one side the axiom, that “ where there is nothing to take 
the Emperor has lost his right,” but he drew on the other 
side the conclusive deduction, that where there is something 
to take the Emperor has not lost his right. The practical 
application he gave to this was equally conclusive with the 
deduction itself, and led in a circle back to the premises 
— the. first named axiom. The poll tax alone rose under 
Constantius to twenty-six pieces of gold. What was Chr}''- 
santeus to do ? He accepted his lot, and comforted himself 
with the fact, that the lean, rock-bound vicinity of Athens 
yet bore crops, while on the noble Campania, 400,000 
acres, an eighth of the landscape, lay desolate on account 
of the extortions of Imperial officers. But Chrysanteus’ 
prodigality did not confine itself to olive plantations and 
agriculture. Wherever on the market or street he met an 
Athenian who hid his full blood under a threadbare mantle, 
he accosted the idler with the question : u how can I assist 
you ? ” How there was in Athens a number of ragged fel- 
lows, whose pride was wounded by such questions and who, 
whenever they caught sight of Chrysanteus afar off, hid 
themselves in a portico, a conversation hall or a barber’s 
shop, to avoid meeting him ; but there were many also, 
whom a candid answer to his question had given a com- 
petency. He gave no alms except to the aged and infirm, 
— the Christians censured this rich man as heartless — but 
he possessed a wonderful talent of discovering what people 
were fit for, and setting them in their proper places. One 
day it was perchance a scion of Cleon, that he placed in a 
\ position to carry on a tannery; another day perhaps a 


The Last Athenian . 


65 


descendant of Hyperbolus, who obtained monej" to set up a 
lamp-manufactory. It is enough to say that the trades, for 
which the Athens of old was celebrated, again flourished ; 
the quarter Scambonidae again resounded with the incessant 
clang of weapon and metal-factories, in Colyttus, cloths again 
were woven, Piraeus again built ships. After Chrysanteus 
struck the first blow, the motion had continued of itself 
and increased without his further aid. The sums he had 
advanced for the encouragement of industry, streamed back 
into the treasure chests in his hall. If success thus veiled 
his prodigality in one direction, it stood all the more naked 
in others. 

Chrysanteus had for a long time cherished an earnest de- 
sire of seing the fine arts revived in their birth-place. Phi- 
dias and Parrhasius had, by their productions, changed the 
artist in the eye of the public from a mechanic to a priest 
of the Beautiful, inspired by Apollo, and as such sacred. 
But Hellas’ art had departed with the last ray of Hellas’ 
freedom. Those who now used the chisel or the pencil, 
were regarded, in spite of their own pretensions, as what 
they actually were, mechanics, — stone-cutters and color- 
daubers. The fault lay both in themselves, who made art 
despicable, and in the time, that allowed itself to despise art 
and the artist. A youth of noble birth could no longer 
take up the pencil or chisel, were it offered him by Pallas 
Athene herself. The heathen immortalized the old artists 
and despised the young ; the Christians hated both alike. 
In such circumstances, the problem Chrysanteus wished to 
solve was very difficult. The attempt failed altogether if 
you consider that the object was not to squander money, but 
to help art. The paintings Chrysanteus bought of young 
artists and liberally paid for, now adorned the walls of his 
tenants ; the statues, the same hobby induced him to pur- 
chase, were all carried to his country seat, and set in a 


66 


The Last Athenian . 


grove, where their charms were hidden in the shadow of 
cypresses and guarded by wild rose-bushes. 

Alas, we have not yet finished the enumeration of the 
archon’s pecuniary follies. We are compelled to add that 
he loved literature. He owned a publishing establishment 
himself, and flooded the world with the works, not only of 
old authors, hut of several new writers, Hierocles, Por- 
phyrius and Jamblicus. He had lately suffered a consider- 
able loss, in his capacity as bookseller, by the order of the 
Emperor Constantius, that all the writings of Porphyrius 
should be burned. Porphyrius had written against Chris- 
tianity — Hierocles and Jamblichus as well. The distribu- 
tion of such hooks was of itself sufficient cause for the name 
of arch-heathen, given by the Christians of Athens to 
Chrysanteus, but which did not wound him in the least. 

Connected with his love of literature was that of the 
theatre. He had in his youth offered up sums, we should 
blush to mention, merely to let the Athenians once more 
behold a tragedy of Sophocles performed with the same 
brilliancy as of yore. He himself paid the actors and pro- 
cured the glittering decorations ; he himself instructed the 
chorus, for which Athens, at his request, had granted her 
noblest youths. The city also rewarded him with a laurel 
wreath and a statue. But the latter was, as a work of art, 
unworthy a place by the side of former choragi, and the 
laurel wreath — did he really deserve so great an offering ? 
We leave this question, and continue with unmitigated se- 
verity our recital of the archon’s weaknesses. His love for 
the theatre was not strictly confined to the tragedy, he 
sometimes laid aside the buskin and strolled within the 
borders of comedy. Chrysanteus had found a young writer 
of comedy, the only talented artist in all Athens. He en- 
couraged him, and enabled him to present his comedies. 
They won beholders by the thousand. In the beginning 
they were harmless, or at most, masked sallies against 


The Last Athenian . 


67 


Annaeus Domitius. But the author’s courage grew with his 
success. While Chrysanteus was at Pergamus, a guest of 
his old teacher in philosoph}', iEdesius, his protege, brought 
a comedy upon the hoards, which coarsely ridiculed the at- 
tempt of Constantine — continued by Constantius — to buy 
in souls from heathendom at the price of a holiday-robe 
and twenty pieces of gold per head. 

The next day, another piece by the same author was 
given, which portrayed how the Christian bishops in great 
crowds were restlessly roving over the roads of Europe and 
Asia, from the one so-called church council to the other, 
ruining the postal system, while they travelled after the 
onty saving faith. Peter, bishop of Athens, immediately 
sent an account of what had happened to Macedonius, the 
patriarch at Constantinople, pointing out the well-known 
philosopher Chrysanteus as the instigator of the bold mis- 
chief. The latter had no knowledge of the event until he 
returned to Athens, and he denounced both comedies, as 
soon as he learned their purport — not with any thought of 
his own safety, or with reference to their anti-Christian 
aims, but because it was contrary to his nature to behold 
anything which gave him anguish, treated with ridicule 
and open levity. There lay in his being much of the 
Roman gravity, that honestum et decorum , which will not 
lower itself to juggling tricks ; but in him this was wedded 
to Hellenic grace, and arose from an all-controlling love 
of the spiritualty beautiful. The result of his ward’s, (the 
author’s) folly became known to the whole Roman world in 
the form of an edict, closing all the theatres. , Chrysanteus 
was surprised with a letter from the Emperor’s own hand, 
at once a warning and a pardon. Dominus Augustus con- 
descended to justify his stringent order to the Athenian 
citizen, and invited him to his court at Constantinople. 
“ Macedonius,” wrote the emperor among other things, “ is 
burning wdth impatience to see you. He will dispute with 


68 


The Last Athenian. 


you as one philosopher disputes with another and hopes to 
convert you.” Chrysanteus answered this imperial clemency 
with an expression of deep but frigid respect, and went not, 
leaving them free to construe his absence as fear for Mace- 
donia’ overpowering eloquence. 

While describing the manner in which Chrysanteus 
employed his patrimony, we should not forget his liberality 
in caring for the splendor of offerings and other customs 
pertaining to the old religion of his people, nor the pro- 
tection he extended to schools and gymnastic halls. It was 
perhaps owing to him that the youth had not yet entirely 
abandoned the latter. His look alone when he passed 
through the sumptuous hot baths of Herodes Atticus, was 
a living reproach to the youths there surrendering them- 
selves to the enervating enjoyment of the warm bath, and 
many a young man, who had gained his good will, found it 
undesirable to be caught there by the strict teacher of wis- 
dom. 

When we add to all this, his activity as one of the first 
officers of the city, it must seem that a man, occupied to 
such a degree with multifarious practical cares, would 
lack time and thought for philosophical studies and 
scientific pursuits. But there is a class of people tvho are 
always in a hurry, and never accomplish anything. There 
is another class whose time is sufficient for everything, 
yet they are never hurried. To the latter, Chrysanteus 
belonged. It must astonish us, since we now know his 
outward activity, that he was in reality not a practical, hut 
an introverted soul, formed for contemplation, attuned to the 
Ideal. He inherited his great estate when a youth, yet 
sitting at the feet of the Hew Platonic iEdesius, under the 
plane trees of the Academy. With regret he reduced the 
hours then devoted to study, in order to fulfil the duties 
connected with his new position. But this regret soon 
ceased. He found that much good, much that had been 


The Last Athenian. 


G9 


the object of his warmest desires — when as a mere boy he 
had his eyes opened to, and his soul filled with the painful 
comparison between the past and the present, — could be 
accomplished with this gold. His practical activity chimed 
in with this harmony of his soul. It rewarded him with 
many sweet moments of peace, and by its change gave 
increased elasticity to his speculative researches. He * 
regarded this outward exertion in the sacred light of a 
priestly calling, whose object was to realize the Beautiful in 
the life of man, and as a trial for the soul, suffering it, 
if victoriously passed through, to advance refined to its 
highest aim — rest in God. It contributed also in its way 
to heal the wounds fate had inflicted upon his household 
joys. He had been robbed by death of an adored wife, 
and by a mysterious occurrence, of his only son, who, when 
only two years old, had vanished with a couple of his Chris- 
tian domestics. This had happened sixteen years before. 
His only child now, was Hermione, a girl of twenty sum- 
mers. She was his joy and pride, the sharer of his labors, 
the comforter of his dark moments. He had devoted him- 
self with fond zeal to her education, and perhaps it was 
this that planted in the girl’s virgin soul the trait of manly 
determination she possessed. A sight of quiet antique 
grace it would have been for any one entering the archon’s 
hall, to see in the framework of pillars, statues and flowers, 
the thoughtful, majestic man, bending over the girl, with 
his arm around her neck, attentively regarding the plan 
of some building or plantation, that she, pencil in hand, 
as showing him ; or else listening to her allegorical 
explanation of one of the holy fables. For she also was 
enthusiastically devoted to the faith of her fathers, and the 
philosopher’s daughter loved the play of fancy, which bears 
the same relation to philosophy as the poets’ interpreta- 
tion of a flower’s nature, to the description of the scientific 
botanist. 


70 


The Last Athenian . 


After iEdesius, who early left Athens, Chrysanteus was 
the new “golden link in the chain of Platonism^’ He 
lectured almost daily in the gardens of the Academy to a 
still numerous band of youths, some Athenians, some 
strangers from various quarters of the world. His philo- 
sophical system, rejected many of Jamblichus’ theurgic ad- 
ditions and went back to Plotinus, but welded to the theory 
of the latter an active bearing upon the outward world, 
which was otherwise foreign to New - Platonism, and 
apparently at variance with its spirit. He himself seemed 
to be aware of this variance by an expression he often let 
fall : “ when I am sixty years old, I shall retire within my- 
self, and become absorbed in the contemplation of God.” 

Chrysanteus’ philosophical system is not found in any 
book, for he never published its separate parts in written 
connection. But his doctrines bear a lasting historical 
fruit in one of his disciples, — Julian, who at two periods of 
his life enjoyed the teachings of Chrysanteus. The old 
philosopher HGdesius, wrote one day to the latter : 

“ Leave your Athens and come to me ! Let nothing 
prevent you from granting my pra} r er ! I am myself too 
old, and my earth has lost its producing power, but in you 
I will plant a noble seed, which shall wax to a tree and 
overshadow the earth. To-day I was not a little surprised, 
when the young Julian stepped over my threshold. You 
know how he has been educated by the murderers of his 
father. Bishop Eusebius of Nicomedia wished to make 
him and his brother neither princes, Csesars nor heroes, no, 
not even men, but Christian saints. The prison walls of 
Macillum, within which the poor children passed their lives, 
assisted this endeavor. And who supposed it would not 
succeed? Julian as well as Gallus, kneeled before monks, 
kissed the hermits’ rags, and read from the evangelists to 
the Christian congregation in the cathedral of Nicomedia. 
Well, Gallus has become such an one as they would make 


The Last Athenian. 


71 


him. He is a Christian of the same kind as Constantine 
and Constantius. But when Julian to-day stepped under 
my roof, he embraced me with tears in his eyes and said, he 
had longed for me since my name had reached his ear even 
through Macillum’s walls. He took hook after book from 
my library and repeated with transport their authors’ names. 
I did not understand him at first. You knew that Euse- 
bius supported the emperor when he uprooted his family, 
only shielding these children, Gallus and Julian. I thought 
however that Eusebius’ culpability was unknown to Julian. 
But this was not the case, for clasping my hand, he said, 
u I hate the Christians. He, who taught me their doctrine, 
reeks with my father’s blood. I now cast at your feet the 
mask, which has hid my abhorrence for him and for them 
all. He would compress my soul within the formulas 
which he and his like dictate to the world. How I am free, 
I know, iEdesius, these priests, who at their church coun- 
cils enact now one and now another creed, for the faith of 
Christians. They are a pack of malefactors, intriguers, 
hypocrites and asses. They tear in pieces the world and 
each other in disputes on words without meaning; but that 
in which they all agree, is what I most despise ; all banish 
the freedom of reason, all teach that the power of rulers 
and the slavery of the people is from God. Ereedom has 
departed from real life, but these people deny it even in 
thought. ^Edesius, I am now master of my time. I love 
the faith of my fathers and the honorable memory of the 
republic. Will you instruct me in Plato’s wisdom and the 
meaning of the fables? Will you be to me a father, since 
I have neither father nor mother?” So spake Julian. 
He remained till evening in my house, — a fiery spirit, but 
his fire burns with a steady flame, promising stability. Pie 
is a youth teeming with great powers. His nature mild, 
amiable and glad, is mixed by fate with foreign ingredients. 
Come to him, Chrysanteus, and purify his soul from hate 


72 


The Last Athenian. 


and bitterness ! Teach him to forget what he has suffered, 
and to love with reason and heart what he now loves with 
heart alone ! I am not fit for him, I might ruin so noble a 
work, if I took it in my trembling hands. My tongue is 
frozen and powerless with age ; and one must speak to him 
with a tongue of fire. Ought not he, who loves truth, to 
hear it in its victorious power? Should not those memo- 
ries he loves be placed before him in their glory ? Alas, if 
the frosts of my old age should quench his fire ! No, j t ou 
must come, my Chrysanteus, and in Julian shape a future. 
I have told him that I give him up to you, and we both 
await your coming. 

Chrysanteus complied with the call. He repaired to 
Ephesus, where Julian was then staying by the emperor’s 
command. The young prince’s steps w^ere dogged by spies. 
The Emperor kept informers continually about him ; Euse- 
bius feared that the pupil might fall into the society of New- 
Platonic philosophers. Two of these — the most dreaded 
for their eloquence and the lustre of their spotless lives 
— Maximus and Libanius, had been exiled from Ephesus. 
On this account Julian and Chrysanteus could hold their 
meetings only in secret and by night. But all the more 
irresistibly they attracted the youth. He compared Euse- 
bius, Constantius’ evil spirit, the soul in court cabals and 
church disputes, whose hand was dripping with blood and 
whose tongue with the pathos of hypocrisy, he compared 
him, his teacher in the Christian religion, with this heathen 
philosopher, whose being bore the clear stamp of a soul 
that in investigation, and outward life, struggled towards 
the fountain of the Beautiful and the True. The very air he 
breathed in Chrysanteus’ presence was intoxicating ; full 
of lofty memories, poetry, philosophy and mysticism. His 
own thoughts he recognized here, no longer as separate 
ideas, but as necessary parts of the temple of reason ; he 
could see the foundation on which they rested, the arclii- 


The Last Athenian. 


73 


trave they upheld. Chrysanteus taught the youth to des- 
pise sensuality and rejoice in his mortality as the condition 
for a higher state of being. Julian was at once acute and 
practical. Both these attributes belonged to New-Platonic 
philosophy, — the last titanic attempt of antique investiga- 
tion to storm Heaven. Everything contributed to increase 
Julian’s enchantment; the person of the teacher, the 
nature of his teachings, leading from the clearness of 
dialectics through the twilight of mysticism into theurgy’s 
foreboding darkness ; — yes, even the manner in which they 
were advanced, convincing by their own power alone. 
Their secret meetings progressed actively for three months, 
when Chrysanteus returned to Athens, leaving in his pupil 
indelible feelings of respect and love. 

Two years after this it happened, that Gallus, who had 
been clothed by Constantius with the dignity of Caesar, 
fell a sacrifice to his patron’s wild suspicion, increasing the 
hecatomb of kindred he had slain. Gallus had succeeded 
during the short period of his reign in acquiring a fame 
worthy of Caligula and Nero. His brother Julian, entirely 
unacquainted with affairs of state, was saved only by the 
entreaties of Constantius’ wife, and sent from the court to 
Athens. He heard the place of his banishment with secret 
joy. During his sojourn at Athens he was the guest of 
Chrysanteus and for the second time his pupil. Six 
months, the happiest in Julian’s life, he spent in the city 
of the goddess of wisdom and the grove of the Academy ; 
when an imperial command compelled him to return to the 
court at Milan. Since that time Chrysanteus had not seen 
his loved disciple, though the world was soon filled with the 
thunder of his achievements. Julian, at the head of the 
Gallic legions had conquered the barbarous Alemanni in 
many bloody battles. His renown had excited the envy of 
Constantius. The court jested in vain about “the hairy 
ape, who learned the art of war from Chrysanteus in the 


74 


The Last Athenian. 


gardens of Athens.” Their mockery was silenced by new 
exploits. On the battle-field of Stfasburg, seven German 
kings and ten princes bent the knee to their conqueror, the 
bearded philosopher. A few days after, the same philoso- 
pher routed the kings of the Franks, and saved Gaul for 
the time from being overflowed by their savage hordes. 
During the two following years, reports kept coming, one 
after the other, of new victories, won by Julian in the heart 
of the barbarian’s own land. Now was the measure of 
Constantius’ envy and dread filled up. He determined to 
rob the young hero of his army and the 'Gallic provinces 
of their protection. The legions of Julian received march- 
ing orders for Persia. All Gaul resounded with a united 
cry of anguish, for the barbarians once more stormed 
against their borders, and the emperor’s order took away 
their defenders. The legions were uproarious and hailed 
their loved commander, Emperor. History, when she 
relates the transactions of these days, leaves the character 
of Julian free from every stain. Constantius repelled all 
attempts at reconciliation. When our story begins, Julian 
is at the head of his few, but victorious *troops, on the 
march to Constantinople. Constantius is assembling all 
the war power of the East around his threatened throne. 
The war which impends is not a war between Julian and 
Constantius alone. It signifies far more. The world trem- 
bles with hope and fear. Julian has resigned himself “to 
the keeping of the immortal gods.” He has openly 
renounced Christianity. The seed sown by Chrysanteus, 
has shot up into day. The war is between antique culture 
and Christianity. Two ages are about to rush together 
sword in hand. And the question Chrysanteus will lay 
before the oracle is this : “Will Julian or Constan- 
tius conquer ? ” 


The Last Athenian . 


75 


CHAPTER V. 

hermione’s night in the temple. 

<► 

A bleak day followed that of the arrival of the Athe- 
nian and his daughter at Delphi. Clouds covered the sky. 
Towards evening the rain fell in torrents, and from the 
gulf of Corinth a heavy southerly wind blew into the 
valley, which, open to the south, caught the windy gusts, 
and compressed them in its ever narrowing gorge, till at 
last a perpendicular precipice blocked their way, and com- 
pelled these champions of air to turn and fight their 
advancing comrades. Thus formed as a battle ground for 
the winds, the neighborhood of Delphi is famous for the 
storms that rage there during autumn and winter. Such 
a storm, say the Chronicles, once annihilated a horde of 
Gallic barbarians, attracted thither by the far-famed treas- 
ures of the oracle. 

The oracle-temple stood upon a terrace sheltered against 
the south wind by lofty cliffs. Here, beyond the worst 
tumult of the gale,, one yet heard the frightful din, as the 
winds struggled between the interlocking hills and stormed 
in the narrow pass. 

So it was on the evening when Hermione, having com- 
pleted the ceremonies of purification, was led by her father 
to the temple of Apollo, there to pass the night. She was 
crowned with laurel and clad in the garb of a Pythian 
priestess. 

Chrysanteus felt her hand tremble in his. He stopped 
and said : “ Let us return ! ” 

He listened to the howling of the wind and repeated: 
“ Let us return ! ” 

Hermione looked up through the evening shades towards 
the colonnade of the temple, over which the giant shadows 


The Last Athenian. 


76 

of chasing clouds were hurrying. She hesitated. . But 
when Chrvsanteus put his arm about her waist, and made a 
motion to return to Heracleon’s dwelling, the full, religious 
feeling which the day’s penances and prayers had left in her 
bosom, rose up, and in connection with the thought ot her 
mission, conquered the not yet fully armored fear. She 
answered “ the divine power we approach is of the light, 
which loves men. And you, my father, watch also to-night, 
think of me, and come to me at the first dawn of day. 
No. Let it be as we have determined ! When I have 
mastered the impression of this strange scene, I shall be 
calm.” 

They continued their way. The wind played with Her- 
mione’s locks, as hand in hand with her father she mounted 
the marble steps and passed through the portico, orna- 
mented with three rows of Doric pillars. An uncertain 
light shimmered to meet them through the half-opened 
door, leading to the interior of the sanctuary. 

The naos of a Grecian temple, — the room within the por- 
tico, the central part of the building, in which the statue of 
the god stood, — was always enclosed by walls without a 
window, and generally roofed over, especially where the 
religious ceremonies, — as in this case, — were of a mysterious 
character. The only opening of the room therefore was 
the door, which always faced the east, to catch the rays of 
the rising sun between the pillars of the portico. When 
the mystic gloom, which must prevail in such a place, was 
not required, candelabra burned night and day upon the 
altar of the god. 

The naos of the Delphic oracle was originally divided into 
two parts by a golden lattice, before which the inquirers, 
crowned, and entering with the clang of trumpets, awaited 
the answer of the P}^thia. Behind the lattice was the holy 
of holies, the prophetic orifice with the tripod placed over 
it, and the statue of Apollo decked with laurel. The lat- 


The Last Athenian. 


77 


tice had been long since tom away by the hand of the 
plunderer. When Hermione raised her eyes, she saw, by 
the dull gleam of a single hanging lamp, a pillared hall 
whose back ground was lost in the darkness. The murky 
gloom was increased by a fragrant smoke, which rose from 
two censers towards the capitals of the pillars, and floated 
like light blue clouds under the roof. The light of the 
lamp fell upon the features of Apollo, and showed them in 
a mild, clear beauty. 

Chrysanteus led Hermione to the tripod. The hole was 
covered by a marble slab, in the middle of which was a 
smaller aperture. 

The girl shuddered, for she approached the workshop of 
a demoniac power. To her fancy the figure of the Pythia 
rose, prophetically raving, with shivering limbs, rolling eyes 
and foaming lips. At that moment it comforted Hermione 
that the fountain of prophetic vapor was dried up. She 
seated herself upon the tripod, her face as pale as the mar- 
ble statue against whose pedestal she leaned her head. 
Chrysanteus handed her the cup that Heracleon had filled 
with the water of Castalia and placed on the altar. She 
drank the cold inspiring draught. When he took the cup 
from her, their eyes met. Hermione’s were faint and lus- 
treless. The father repeated : “ Let us return ! ” But the 
girl’s lip curled with a forced smile, and a gesture of the 
hand indicated her determination. She then folded her 
arms upon her breast and closed her eyes. 

She heard her father’s step upon the marble floor as he 
departed. She heard the door shut and the key turn in the 
lock. She was alone. 

When Idea, a heavenly revelation, descended into the 
soul of Plato, the foundation was laid for a mighty and 
all-pervading revolution in the world of thought. Man 
ceased to be dust, and the world but a heap of atoms. 
Matter was banished from reality to the shadowy realms of 


T8 


The Last Athenian. 


possibility. All was changed, — nature, mankind, the gods. 
Everything vibrated like waves of ether around the risen 
sun of knowledge. But the unity which was gained be- 
tween the ideal world and the world of sense, was rather 
the reflection of a seer than the fruit of rigid investigation. 
Idea’s world, the true, though found, lay at an inaccessible 
distance ; and doubt, the negative element of investigation, 
very near. How can we be certain of the truth of our 
knowledge ? Are our premises correct ? If so, where is 
the touch-stone, by which this can be made clear ? Doubt 
begot disquiet, disquiet a desire to be free from it. Man 
seeks a truth unassailable by the objections of doubt. But 
such a truth seems inaccessible to the deductions of pure 
reason. It is found only, said the last philosopher of 
Greece, above the confusing glare of the world of sense, 
above the understanding, above judgment and the convic- 
tions of reason, in a world beyond our comprehension, where 
the spirit of the universe breathes into the soul of the 
individual. Will you master the Divine ? Will you behold 
truth face to face ? Then repress everything carnal, every 
personal characteristic, all that goes to make up your own 
separate individuality, as distinguished from the one and 
the universal ; blot from your soul every thought, every 
feeling, every perception, every will! Thus you come to 
behold the One, Incarnate, Incomprehensible. Then noth- 
ing stands between the beholding soul and the beheld divin- 
ity. The seer and the seen are one. The seeker has 
become one with the truth. This state, in which the soul 
no longer lives its own, but the universal life, and from 
this receives its wisdom, its foresight, its independence of 
time and space, in the same way as the magnet is pervaded 
by a power not its own, but universal and world-wide, — this 
state is one of highest transport,— ecstasy. Ecstasy, said 
the New-Platonists, is the form of the highest consciousness, 
the immediate intuition. Music, prayer and love are pow- 


The Last Athenian. 


TO 


ers, which help the truth and purity-loving soul to the 
borders of this state ; the rest, the soul must accomplish 
itself, by sinking into perfect inactivity, by converting itself 
into a vacuum, which the Divine, pure and unmixed with 
human sensuality, may fill. 

Grecian philosophy, in short, suffered from the New-Pla- 
tonists the same changes, as the tradition of antique archi- 
tecture from the builders of the middle ages. Plato’s temple 
of thought was by a chain of transformations converted 
into a building pierced with windows, painted by mysticism 
and with ogives bent by heavenly longings. 

When on that stormy night Chrysanteus’ daughter, alone 
in the mysterious temple, sank upon the Pythia’s tripod, 
closed her eyes, rested her arms on her bosom and her head 
against the pedestal of the sun-god, she was awaiting the 
prophetic degree of ecstasy, that lower and for most people 
attainable state of transport, in which the soul, floating 
over the sea of unconsciousness, but not yet sunk in its 
depths, beholds with the prophetic eye of universal har- 
mony what it seeks to know. 

We shall some day be able to account for the physical 
phenomena, which accompany the ecstatic state, for the 
tension of certain muscles, the relaxation of others. But 
ecstasy itself — who can explain it and its astonishing spirit- 
ual phenomena ? How wonderful ! Fifteen hundred years 
have passed over the grave of the last Grecian philosopher, 
and the investigating spirit of our race has since then fought 
many a mighty battle ; but to-day, as then, the thinker stands 
before the same miracle, and the theistic philosopher of the 
nineteenth century, the man at the summit of the wisdom 
of his age, is compelled, in the manifestations of ecstasy, to 
behold essentially the same as the old heathens, Plotinus, 
Jamblichus and Chrysanteus, before him* 

Will Julian or Constantins conquer ? Where is P hilip , 

* See Fichte the younger’s work. 


80 


The Last Athenian. 


my lost brother? Within these questions, — the latter 
added by the girl’s own heart, without premeditation, — Her- 
mione sought to concentrate her consciousness. If one had 
entered the temple at that moment he would have seen at 
the foot of Apollo’s statue another, as pale, motionless and 
beautiful. The wind sighed among the pillars of the por- 
tico. The roaring of the storm sounded as stifled moans 
through the thick walls. Hermione would not hear it. 
She bade the nerves of hearing die. She yet saw in 
thought the gloomy temple-hall, the glimpse of the pillars, 
the curling incense ; and the light of the lamp shim- 
mered dim and dark red through her eyelids. Hermione 
would not see it. She commanded the nerves of sight to be 
numb, the imitative vision to vanish. 

Thus during the will’s contest with the senses, uncounted 
moments flew by. Then there suddenly shot through her 
a thought of the face that looked out over her own, 
the face of Apollo, the unchangeable, which for centuries 
had gazed as now. In this thought she felt something 
awful, connected as it was with the demoniac nature of the 
place and the sense of solitude. Solitude of itself, when 
suddenly and deeply felt, may entirely overcome one. 
Hermione flew up from the Pythian tripod. She trembled 
and hid her face in her hands. Fancy cheated her. The 
marble statue seemed to leave its pedestal and stand, with 
empty eyes, gazing into hers. She dared not look. The 
silence terrified her, but a break in the silence would have 
frozen her blood. Thus she stood waiting for strength to 
fight her fear. And she gained this strength by thinking 
of her father. She opened her eyes. All was indeed as 
before. The statue of the god had not left its place, the 
lamp seemed to cast a clearer light, the censer a milder 
exhalation. Chrysanteus’ daughter upbraided herself with 
her womanly fear. To strengthen herself against its 
return, she gazed long on Apollo’s features, and then 


The Last Athenian. 


81 


walked with firm step around the temple hall. She looked 
at the votive tablets and trophies which yet adorned the 
walls, the altar and the tripods which yet stood between 
the pillars ; for the zeal of Constantius and his favorites 
had as yet spared the temple such property as was not 
silver nor gold. She tried the door, which she found in the 
rear, leading to the opisthodome and the small sanctuaries 
on either side of it. Then she returned calm, seated her- 
self on the tripod, and again shut her eyes. 

Hours passed, while Hermione’s will contended anew, 
and at last victoriously, with her senses. The storm howled 
on as before about the old building, but she heard it not. 
The eyelids with their dark fringes lay steeled, blue-white 
and transparent over the sight. The limbs were stiffened 
like a corpse, the whole organism dead to the outer world. 
But within this frozen shell lived a consciousness, following 
truly and reflectively all the transformations which there 
took place. This is peculiar to that state, which precedes 
ecstasy, as Jamblichus describes it. It reveals itself thus 
in the nearly related magnetic sleep, as sometimes in a case 
of apparent death. 

The first feeling, which arose after the will’s final victory, 
was one of pain. Hermione felt her head compressed as 
with an iron band. But the pain ceased instantly and was 
succeeded by a wonderful play of colors. Her brain was 
changed to a fountain of fire, casting starry cascades of 
mingling splendors, in which all the colors flowed together, 
or in a flash dissolved into each other. Gradually this play 
of colors paled and left behind a grievous darkness. This 
lasted long, till there came floating up through its depths a 
mild light from the region under the heart. Thoughts and 
feelings streamed from the darkened throbbing brain down 
to this point, and when the consciousness had collected 
itself here, the bounds, which closed it in, spread out into a 
world. 


82 


The Last Athenian. 


Hermione seemed to float upon a cloud through endless 
space. The heavens arched blue and bright around her; 
the air she breathed was intoxicating. The cloud sank and 
left her upon an emerald-green meadow. Mountains, on 
whose summits brilliant clouds were reposing, towered in 
the back ground. Among them roared a cataract toward 
a broad and majestic river, flowing through the valley. All 
objects, even the most remote, were bounded by clear lines. 
On the river floated a boat, which swiftly approached. A 
youthful figure sat leaning over the rail, looking down into 
the water. Hermione saw his features, and her heart 
recognized her loved brother. 

She tried to call to him, but her voice died away without 
sound, as if the air were too ethereal to bear the weight of 
a human word. She tried to extend her arms to him, but 
in vain. It seemed as if these fruitless attempts affected 
the picture around her. Its colors grew pale, its objects 
vanished in mist. 

“ Philip, where art thou ? Come, oh come, to thy father 
and sister ! ” 

Was it this prayer that changed the picture to what it 
now became ? From the mist stood forth Tripod street in 
Athens. Hermione was before her father’s house. The 
street swarmed with people. She sought her brother in 
the throng. Something told her he would come. Then 
she saw advancing a procession of Christian priests. At 
the head, on a mule, rode the bishop of Athens. In the 
dream-world as in the real this man produced an un- 
pleasant impression on the daughter of Chrysanteus, and 
rather than prolong it, she turned and went in. But hav- 
ing passed through the vestibule, she did not find herself 
in the well known hall — she saw a desert of golden sand 
extending to the horizon. The sun glowed upon it with 
heat intolerable. Very near the girl lay a purple mantle, 
whose folds betrayed a body hid beneath, and beside the 


The Last Athenian. 


83 


mantle a sceptre, half buried in the sand. In the distance 
a squad of riders galloped away upon fleet horses. They 
wore high caps, chain-armor, and bows hung over their 
shoulders. 

This picture also vanished in mist. Hermione perceived 
through it a rattling and noise of voices, which frightened 
her and recalled her nearer reality. She saw herself again 
upon the Pythian tripod, — Apollo’s statue bent down and 
clasped her in its cold arms. But the statue’s countenance 
was no longer the same ; it was that of a youth, whom 
Hermione had long wished to forget. 

“ Charmides ! ” she cried and darted from the stool. Her 
eyes opened. Everything was in its former state. But 
was that an echo from the world she had left? — outside the 
temple door arose an uproar, mingled with human voices. 
Was it the storm howling without ? No, the door shook with 
heavy, measured blows, the voices spoke as the wind cannot 
speak. Hermione listened, passed her hand over her brow, 
her locks, her robe. She saw the laurel wreath she had 
worn, lying at her feet. She was convinced this was no 
dream. Terror gave her decision ; she ran to the farther 
end of the room and hid herself behind an altar. The 
door opened, many figures entered. Hermione saw this 
and pressed her hands against her heaving bosom. 

“ Forward, man ! Go in ! Ha, I believe you are afraid 
of the dark,” sounded a voice behind the foremost, who 
hesitatingly entered, lantern in hand. 

“Here is a lamp and incense burning,” continued the 
same voice, whose possessor advanced a few steps into the 
hall, by the side of one of his comrades, while other figures 
crowded about the door. 

“ Permit me to explain,” said the comrade, “ that there 
is still living here an old priest. It is in all probability he, 
who in the observance of ancient customs — ” 

“ Well, well ! Light a torch. It is dark in this devil’s 
den. More light ! ” 


84 


The Last Athenian. 


Shortly after this order, the red, smoky, flaring flame of 
a resin link shot out its rays. 

The altar, behind which Hermione had fled, stood in the 
shadow of a pillar. The girl’s eyes were riveted with inex- 
pressible anguish upon the scene passing before her. The 
strange men jvere all armed and enveloped in capouches. 
When a mantle fell back, the torchlight glistened on a 
sword hilt. He, who had just spoken, was apparently 
the most noble. He w r as of middle height, with motions 
impetuous and commanding. His figure and face were 
hidden by the hooded-cloak. 

“ Ha, ha ! ” he laughed, and his voice sounded hollow 
and hideous. “ We shall see how the case stands. Apode- 
mius and Eusebius, you have plundered Apollo most shame- 
fully. Swept and garnished ! I scarcely recognize the 
place ; and there he stands himself. The statue, the statue 
I mean. Himself ! We will see if he is here.” 

“ Quick work ! ” continued the man, as he advanced to 
the Pythia’s tripod and kicked it over. “ Here men, and 
lift away this stone ! Come on ! We will see if Apollo — 
We will prove that they are lies, all these tales — How was 
it, Osius ? You said that a priest still lived here ? ” 

“Yes, domine,” answered the one addressed, with alow 
how. 

“We should take this opportunity to stretch him on the 
rack. There must still he hidden treasures here. Note 
down my thought, Eusebius, so that we shall not forget it ! 
— What? Are you paralyzed, or what is the matter? 
Can you not lift such a wretched weight, you slaves? 
Osius, you new Goliath, help them open the portal to the 
lower world ! ” 

After the man, who was called Osius, united his strength 
with the others, they succeeded in shoving away the slab 
that covered the Pythian hole. 

“ Osius,” continued he who was called Dominus, “ You 


The Last Athenian. 


85 


are a Stentor, and your voice a leading string through ten 
thousand palatines arranged in line of battle. So then, 
wake up Apollo. Shout, roar, for perhaps he sleeps or is 
deaf.” 

“ Master, what is your will ? ” 

“ Ass ! fool ! Do you not comprehend that it is a con- 
ceit. A noble conceit by all the angels ! So, away to the 
hole, lay over its brink and shout down into hell ; Apollo ! ” 

“ You are certainly not jesting, Master ? ” 

“ Woe be to you, if I jested ! — Hasten ! ” 

Osius again approached the hole, which now gaped with 
a wider throat. The other figures made towards the door, 
as if they feared what was about to take place. Their 
master threw back his cowl, perhaps to hear better, and 
the torchlight fell freely upon his grim, sallow, sharply- 
marked visage. 

Osius looked down into the black depths and said, rather 
than shouted : “ Apollo ! ” 

“ Louder ! ” cried the sallow-face. “ Coward, where is 
your voice ? ” 

“ Apollo ! ” 

The call, which this time did honor to the new Stentor, 
was — what perhaps no one present expected — answered. 
From the bowels of the earth issued sounds, dull as the 
rumbling of distant thunder. It was as if a host of 
demons, bound in the grottoes below, had waked to the con- 
sciousness of their chains and sighing, wondered who had 
broken their rest. When the noise from the nether world 
ceased, the deepest silence reigned in the temple. The 
figures stood as if turned to steel. Only Osius showed 
signs of life as he staggered back from the brink of the 
abyss. “ Pshaw ! ” sneered at last the sallow-face, “ it was 
the echo of your voice, Osius, — nothing more ! There are, 
it is said, miles of corridors and halls down there. That 
voice does not prophesy. Hallo ! ” continued he, stepping 


86 


The Last Athenian. 


up to the hole, u hallo, down there, whoever you are, what 
say you of the rebel Julian ? Answer ! ” 

The same dull underground rumbling sounded once more 
beneath their feet. 

“ You hear! Not a distinct word! only mumbling, 
mumbling, even when it concerns the best friend of hell. 
He first spoke flowing hexameters, this Apollo, then his 
verses became rather knotty, so he condescended to prose, 
the poet God, and now — mumbling ! ” 

u How his tongue flows with blasphemy,” thought Osius, 
and perhaps many of the others ; — “ we are Christians, yet 
we ought not to incense the heathen powers.” 

u Apodemius, what do you think of the jest ? ” asked the 
sallow-face, laughing. 

“ Purest Attic salt, 0 Master ! ” 
u Is it not worth while to continue it ? ” 

“ Your majesty will vouchsafe us a boundless joy.” 
u The oracle hook, where is it ? ” 

“ Probably in one of the sanctuaries.” 
u Come on then, follow me!” 

“ By the Lord, he moved his eyes and beckoned with his 
hand,” whispered one of the armed men to another. 

“ Who, who ? ” 

“ Apollo — the statue I mean.” 

“ Ah ! This will not end well. And I, — I saw some- 
thing white move away there by the pillar. May God and 
His angel hosts protect us ! ” 

He nodded to the place where Chrysanteus’ daughter, 
more dead than alive, lay cowering behind the sheltering 
altar. 

The two men who conducted this conversation in whis- 
pers, while they followed the others towards the opistho- 
dome, wore under their cloaks the glittering uniform of cen- 
turians of the guard. 

They stood before one of the sanctuaries. With the help 


The Last Athenian. 


87 


of his short Roman sword Osius succeeded so quickly in 
bursting open the rotten door, that the sallow-face stamped 
hut once on the floor with impatience. 

“ This way with the torch ! ” cried the commanding voice 
from within the sanctuary. “There are no treasures here. 
Eusebius and Apodemius, I tell you once again, you have 
plundered most shamefully.” 

“ Master, here it is ! ” 

“ Ha, let us see ! All loose leaves ! And what a mass ! 
Apollo has succeeded in heaping up more lies upon his con- 
science, than I thought. Take a handful, Eusebius. That 
is enough for the jest we propose.” 

The men returned from the sanctuary. One of them 
bore in his hand some leaves, on which were written the 
oracles of the past given by the Delphic Apollo. They had 
been preserved with the same care as the Sibylline utter- 
ances. It was thought best, as with the latter, instead of 
arranging them in the form of rolls or codices, to keep them 
in a condition to remind one of their origin and indepen- 
dence of each other; perhaps imitating the mythic Sibyls’ 
custom who wrote their oracles on the leaves of trees, 
which, according to the poets, they cast into the river 
or scattered to the winds. 

When the group again drew together under the lamp, 
whose light was steadier than that of the flaring link, two 
of the men were ordered to take off their helmets and hold 
them out to receive the papers robbed from the sanctuary. 

“ Do you understand me now ? ” said the sallow-face 
with a hollow laugh. “We shall try our hand at Claero- 
mantics. You, Eusebius, draw from the helmet of Marcellus 
for Julian.” 

“ Anathemas on his name ! ” muttered all in chorus. 

“ And I draw from Osius’ for myself. Apollo, wherever 
you are, in Olympus or Hades, I exhort you now to direct 
our hands aright ! If you have ever revealed what Time 
bears in his bosom, do it now ! ” 


88 


The Last Athenian. 


The tone of the sallow-face at that moment betrayed any- 
thing but a jest. He muttered an incantation between his 
teeth, then thrust his hand into Osius’ helmet and drew 
forth a leaf of parchment. Eusebius did the same from 
Marcellus’ and handed the paper to his master. 

The sallow-face glanced first at the oracle, destined by 
lot for Julian, and the features of his dark visage seemed to 
stiffen, — then at that which concerned himself. Those 
around regarded him with the deepest anxiety. Some 
moments passed before he opened his mouth. He then 
said in a weak voice : 

“ Eusebius, your arm ! ” 

Eusebius hastened to support the tottering man. 

“ Constantius, my master and emperor,” he exclaimed. 

“ It is nothing. A sudden faintness. The violent ride 
has taken away my strength. Friends, let us go,” he 
added after a pause, “No mortal may know that I have 
been here ! Before I lay my head, this devil’s nest shall 
be razed to the ground.” 

Constantius, for it was he, Emperor of the Boman world, 
son of Constantine, — left the temple supported on the arm 
of his chamberlain and surrounded by his courtiers. 

Their horses waited in Apollo’s grove, and in half an 
hour they had left the valley of Delphi far behind. 

A few days later, in Antioch, he reviewed the army with 
which he had hastened from the borders of Palestine to 
meet J ulian. Except a few confidants, no one knew that 
during this time he had left his palace. 

When Chrysanteus at the first dawn of day approached 
the temple, he found his daughter sitting on the steps of 
the portico, her head leaning against a pillar, and her dark 
dishevelled locks, wet with the morning dew, streaming over 
her marble cheeks. 


The Last Athenian . 


89 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE PROCONSUL IN A PUZZLE. AT THE BISHOP’S 

PALACE. 

“ Clear as day, is it not, illustrious and noble master ? ” 
Have I not fully demonstrated that Athanasius is a sophist 
or rather no sophist at all, but worse than one, for even the 
sophist makes seemingly correct conclusions ? ” 

This question formed one of the links in a conversation 
or conversational lecture, taking place one fine evening in 
the tepidarium of the bath house, glittering with gold and 
marble, which Herodes Atticus had given the Athenians. 
The tepidarium was a dimly lighted hall, decorated with 
marble floor, painted walls, and paneled roof. Here 
in the agreeable warmth and sweetly perfumed air the 
bathers tarried before repairing to the warm- water or sweat- 
baths, and hither they afterward returned to undergo 
the manifold shampooings, which formed the last and high- 
est enjoyment of the bath. The person, whose question 
we have given above, stood wrapped in a sheet and gesticu- 
lated — now with the right fore finger against his long, thin 
nose, now describing with the same finger dialectic circles 
in his left hand, — before a little thick figure reposing un- 
dressed upon the swelling cushions of one of the bronze 
sofas of the hall, surrounded by slaves, who from flasks 
of crystal and alabaster anointed and perfumed his limbs, 
performing all the mysteries of shampooing, with the great- 
est zeal and regularity. 

The individual addressed, who found himself in the 
seventh heaven of the pleasures of the bath, answered only 
with a grunting sound, expressing at once the deliciousness 
of the moment and his impatience at being disturbed in the 
full, undivided enjoyment of his physical being. 


90 


The Last Athenian . 


The man in the bathing sheet accepted the grunt as an 
assent and continued : 

“ That Origines, in certain passages expressed heretical 
ideas, is not my private opinion alone. I can cite the testi- 
mony of Epiphanius and many others. Athanasius white- 
washes him in vain. A Moor will not become white though 
he nine times a day take cold bath, shower bath, warm 
bath, sweat bath, and let himself be scrubbed with brush 
aud pumice-stone by all the slaves in this blessed thermae. 
The Moor is and remains black; illustrious and noble 
Annaeus Domitius, does he not ? ” 

A new grunt and an impatient grin was the answer. 

“But to return to Athanasius/’ continued the theolog- 
ical bather, “ Can anything be more ridiculous and at the 
same time more impudent than his assertion, that the 
council of Nice, of deplorable memory, when it accepted 
the word homoousios, coincided with, and supported, the 
decision of the elders of Antioch, who rejected this very 
same heretical word? What now does Athanasius do to 
escape from this dilemma? The sophist says that both 
councils meant the same thing, since they rejected the same 
word, — now I ask ” 

“ No, no, no ! ask me not ! ” exclaimed Annaeus Domitius 
with a desperate exertion. “ I admit in advance all you 
are saying or intend to say. You will oblige me, by mov- 
ing a little further off, for you see, you are hindering my 
slaves in the performance of their duties — alas, how life is 
filled with trouble ! — Charmides, my delight, where art 
thou ? ” 

“ Here, my darling proconsul ! ” came the answer, from 
another sofa, surrounded by slaves. 

“ Ah, the cursed babbler, 

‘ Huat hanat haut 
Ista pista sista 
Doraiabo elamnaustra.’ ” 


The Last Athenian. 


91 


“ What did you say, my Annaeus ? ” 

" I am repeating a spell which my old nurse used for 
gout and pain in the joints, but which perhaps will also 
avail against impertinent babblers. It is worth while, at 
least, to try it.” 

The man in the sheet was apparently much disturbed by 
this change in the conversation. “ The proconsul associates 
with dissolute heathen, but does not suffer his poor brother 
in the congregation to approach him within ten paces. He 
is a half heathen, — in fact too narrow-minded to compre- 
hend theology,” he muttered to himself, as with solemn 
step he paced up and down the tepidarium. He then dis- 
appeared through the door to the dressing room, whence 
among a tumult of voices his own was soon heard in the 
wide-spread words : “ Nice ” — “ Origenes,” “ Athanasius ” — 
“ Homoousion ,” — “ Antioch,” — “ Paul of Samosata,” etc. 

To theologize was at that time both fashionable and 
necessary. The word-quarrels of the church councils could 
not have shaken the world as they did, had they not found 
an echo in innumerable masses of men. Despotism had 
stifled all participation in political affairs ; the new state 
religion banished philosophy ; literature and art w~ere dyings 
and desire for material welfare was cooled by the civil 
wars and the rapacity of the government. Every Christian 
must choose his place among the contending parties ; while 
the heathen themselves could not avoid inquiring the cause 
that converted the churches of the great cities into blood- 
stained slaughter-houses, and carried the incendiaries’ torch 
to the remotest villages in Paphlagonia and Africa. The- 
ology alone answered this inquiry. And theology was now 
to answer all inquiries the investigating soul could propose. 
Proud in having at last won that firm foundation, which 
philosophy vainly sought in pure reason, it now strove 
to illumine the divine and human mysteries with the torch, 
lit at the fire of inspiration. 


92 


The Last Athenian. 


To busy oneself with theology was thus a necessity, or at 
least a fashion of the time. Everything was colored by 
theology ; the emperor’s dreams, the court cabals, the writ- 
ing excercises of the schools, the ladies’ gossip, the street 
talk, the bustle at the circus, private quarrels, the civil war. 
If Annaeus Domitius, with his old Roman incantation, could 
exorcise the figure in the bathing-sheet, there yet remained 
innumerable others of the same sort, swarming like maggots 
wherever a decent Christian could set his foot. And such 
a place was even the bath house, although many Christians 
renounced the heathen virtue of cleanliness for the litany, j 

After Annaeus Domitius and Charmides had undergone 
the last manipulations of the bath, and been clad in the 
garments their own slaves held ready in the waiting room, 
they made up a common programme for the next day’s 
enjoyment, and separated. Charmides went with some 
friends to the library near the tepidarium, to hear Olympio- 
dorus recite his last poem, — a humorous description of every- 
day life in Olympus. Annaeus Domitius was now, as ever, 
hunted to death by affairs of state. He hastened to the 
bishop’s house, for Peter had made known by a deacon his 
wish to speak with the proconsul of Achaia that evening. 

It was already dusk when Annaeus Domitius left the 
thermae. Lamps were lit in the porticoes of the temple ; 
torches burned at all the public buildings, and around the 
statues of gods and heroes ; streets and market were flecked 
by the lanterns of foot passengers. Annaeus Domitius 
wrapped himself in his mantle. His brow was contracted. 
Charmides had already detected in the proconsul a certain 
abstraction, an indifference, when they conferred on the best 
manner of killing the next day. The proconsul was in 
reality occupied by very serious matters. A host of demo- 
niac ifs and huts pierced his brain. Such were his 
thoughts : 

“ Accursed despatch! Did one ever receive the like? 


The Last Athenian. 93 

The emperor’s government authorizes me to take the head 
of Chrysanteus, hut does not command it. It sends me a 
present I will not have ; and when it lays in my lap the 
philosopher’s head, it raises the sword over another, — to me 
incomparably more precious, — namely, my own ! Who 
knows how long the present government will continue? 
Accounts from the theatre of war are partly unfavorable, 
partly favorable to Julian. Suppose Julian conquers ! How 
will it go with me then, if I have taken my friend Chrysan- 
teus’ life? Julian is his disciple, friend and admirer. The 
first head the new emperor cuts off, will then be mine. He 
will without mercy offer up the scion of Seneca to the shade 
of the Platonist. How will it fare with me if, at my own 
risk, I preserve Chrysanteus? I shall be the cherished 
object of my new emperor’s boundless gratitude. He will 
guard me with tender care. He makes me prefect at Rome, 
— consul, even, — and my name becomes immortal in eternal 
connection with one of the links in Time’s chain of years. 
A thousand years hence the schoolboy will learn that this or 
that remarkable event occurred in the year Annceo Domitio 
et Q. Q. consulibus. But, alas, here arises another sup- 
position. Constantius conquers ! How does my fate figure 
itself then, if I construe the permission for what it really 
is — a cautiously-worded order ? The yet powerful heathen 
will be filled with bitterness, and the imperial government 
will hasten to heap the whole blame upon the doer of the 
deed. The text of the letter is so framed on this very 
account. Accursed be the crafty foxes around the emperor ! 
If, on the other hand, I feign to misunderstand the order, 
my clemency will be construed as inefficiency, and without 
much exaggeration, as doubt of the emperor’s success, — a 
design to save myself in case the rebel should seize the 
throne. Alas, what shall I do ? ” 

While Annaeus Domitius is swearing over his ill luck by 
the saints and the Olympian gods in turn, let us hasten on 
before him to the palace of the bishop. 

6 


94 • 


The Last Athenian. 


As usual at this time in the evening, a crowd of beggars 
stand at the gate awaiting the distribution of alms, and in 
the mean time arranging their rags to best show their hid- 
eous, self-inflicted wounds. If one should successfully make 
his way through the loathsome throng, and pass along the 
corridor into the hall, he would see in the dim colonnade 
next the vestibule, an assemblage of people, seeking audi- 
ence : partly heathen, who wished to announce their decision 
to embrace the doctrines of Christianity; partly litigat- 
ing Christians, who preferred laying their quarrels before 
Peter to committing them to a worldly court of justice. 
In the open court, and in the colonnades next the office 
might be seen, by the light of a couple of torches, groups of 
priests awaiting their master's orders ; presbyters, deacons, 
exorcists and readers, discussing in whispers the latest 
news from the apostate Julian, the rumor that Anathasius 
had been seen in the neighborhood of Athens, and above 
all, that most important imformation the bishop had just 
received from Constantinople. The Homoousians there 
had been horribly punished, while forcibly striving to 
prevent the removal of the holy Constantine’s remains 
from the ruined Chapel where they reposed, to a church 
built by the Homoiousians. A presbyter whispers to the 
attentive deacons around, that, according to what bishop 
Peter himself had told him, the fountain before the church 
had been filled with heretic corpses, and heretic blood had 
overflowed the curb stones in that part of the city. “ The 
forerunner of what must come in Athens — ” all thought 
within themselves. 

We enter the office, an oblong hall ; in the middle is a 
large table, where two priests, the bishop’s secretaries, are 
at work, one writing, the other counting money. Leaning 
against the table, and looking towards the back of the 
rpom, stands a youth scarcely beyond the years of boyhood, 
in the priestly garb of a reader. His large, fever-bright 


The Last Athenian. 


95 


eyes, are fastened upon, and he attentively follows the con- 
versation of, two large, commanding men of very different 
appearance : the one, Peter, bishop of Athens ; the other 
Chrysanteus, the heathen philosopher. 

The new taste, the Christian, had fittingly decorated the 
bishop’s office. It is lighted by two phari , (bowl-shaped 
lamps) resting upon pillars of bronze, but the height of the 
narrow windows from the floor gives the room, even by 
lamp-light, a gloomy aspect. The sky-blue walls are divided 
by arabesques into panels, each of which holds its Christian 
symbol. The fish,* seldom lacking among the symbolical 
figures of the early Christians, is painted in gold in the 
panel over the door. In the others are seen the Lamb with 
the cross, — the emblems of the evangelists ; the angel , the 
Lion , the Ox, and the Eagle ; the Dove of the Spirit, the 
Eye of Providence, the Cock of watchfulness, the Rock of 
steadfastness, the Olive branch of peace, the Palm of vic- 
tory, the Phoenix of resurrection, with many other devices, 
partly original, partly taken from the antique. In the back- 
ground hangs an oil-painting — Christ as Orpheus, — with 
Phrygian cap, and playing on the lyre; while lions and 
tigers lie at his feet, and birds of brilliant plumage listen 
from the tree under which he is sitting. 

Beneath this picture, on the mosaic table, against which 
Peter, during his conversation with Chrysanteus, rests his 
clenched hand, stands an ivory statuette, representing Christ 
as a young shepherd, in a short tunic, embracing the lamb 
found again. The tunic is covered with precious stones. 
The young art, which produced both these works, is still 
bound to antique forms ; its whole originality lies in the 
coarseness of the workmanship and a striving after the 
gorgeous. Unmoved by the new popular spirit, it is in 
reality still the old art, but in its deepest decay. 

* In the Greek the word fish is composed of the initial letters of 
the following words; Jesus Christ God’s Son Saviour. 


96 


The Last Athenian. 


At the opposite end of the hall stands a gold cross ; and 
near by a money-box, open for the moment. 

Never did a conversation begin in a more frigid and dis- 
tant tone than that between the Christian bishop and the 
heathen philosopher. Peter concealed a hate he really 
entertained, but sought in tone and bearing to manifest a 
contemptuous superiority he did not possess. 

Chrysanteus was, as ever, natural. He laid only the bond 
of good manners upon the deep instinctive aversion he felt 
for the bishop of the Athenian Christians. 

The two priests sitting at the writing table did not allow 
themselves to be disturbed in their occupations by the con- 
versation. Discipline forbade them to manifest their inter- 
est in the subject or the speakers by a single glance. 
But their ears were open and they lost not a word. 

“You have been absent from Athens for some days,” 
said the bishop to Chrysanteus. 

“ Yes. And you have given notice that you desired a 
conversation. What will you with me ? ” 

“ You return just in time to receive part of an edict, of 
which the first elective officer of the city is in duty bound 
to take notice.” 

“ Well, and is it you who inform me of this ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ You must then do this in behalf of the proconsul of 
Achaia, for hitherto it has been he, through whom the 
emperor has made known his will to the city of Athens,” 
said Chrysanteus with honest surprise, for it seemed 
strange that a Christian priest should communicate to him 
orders from the government. 

Peter did not answer this question, but turned towards 
the reckoning presbyter. “Is the counting finished?” he 
asked. 

“ Finished, most reverend father,” replied the latter, as 
he tied up the bag in which he had deposited the money. 


The Last Athenian. 


97 


“ Clemens, my loved son,” continued the bishop, turning 
towards the jmung reader, “take this sum and distribute it 
to the poor brethren who are waiting. I know that they 
prefer to receive alms from your hands. At the same time, 
tell those seeking justice to return to-morrow at the usual 
hour ; and those seeking salvation that they may now have 
audience.” 

The boy in priest’s clothes started as if from deep 
thought, when he heard his name. His gaze had been 
uninterruptedly fastened upon the face and form of Chry- 
santeus. It was the first time he had seen the Athenian 
archheathen, of whom the bishop had so often spoken to 
him, now with anger, now with pity. But the picture of 
the well-known philosopher that Clemens’ fancy had paint- 
ed from the words of the bishop, did not coincide with the 
reality. Clemens would compel himself to discover some- 
thing hard, arrogant, egotistical or demoniac in his counte- 
nance, and in this attempt was now interrupted. 

When Peter turned away from Chrysanteus, the latter in 
glancing over the room had noticed the young priest. 
Clemens was pale and slender, but his features beamed 
with a seraphic purity that entered the heart of the beauty- 
loving Athenian, and filled it with sympathy. It seemed 
to him like a grim freak of fate, that such a tender, lovely 
being was already clad in a garb which condemned him to 
renounce the independence of his soul and the natural emo- 
tions of his heart. 

Clemens had scarcely departed through the door to the 
outer hall, when it was opened from without by the osti- 
arian for a little company of men and women. They were 
seekers for salvation,— -that is, heathen, who desired to 
be taken into the Christian congregation. It was hard, 
from their appearance, to guess who among these people had 
been driven here by the necessities of the soul, and who by 


98 


The Last Athenian. 


worldly calculations. They all seemed to belong to the 
most unfortunate class of society. 

In their midst appeared a man who wore a mantle over 
his tunic, — a ragged mantle to he sure, yet one that spoke 
of better days. His easy bearing widely separated him 
from the others who, silent and humble, stood by the door. 
This man was the last scion of an Athenian stem, tracing 
its descent from Iphicrates. He had squandered his patri- 
mony in profligacy. He took two steps into the room, and 
with his usual impudence was just on the point of announ- 
cing his errand, when he suddenly caught sight of Chry- 
santeus, whom lie had least of all • expected to meet here. 
The meeting was very undesirable and almost threw him off 
his guard. But he recovered himself quick enough, threw 
a look of feigned surprise around the room, and exclaimed, 

“ By Jove ! this is a funny mistake ; a pocket edition of 
the Odyssey ! You must pardon me, my bishop. I did 
not seek you, but your neighbor, my excellent friend the 
antiquarian.” 

With these words he turned on his heel, greeted Chry- 
santeus with saucy familiarity, and left the room. 

Peter turned to the seekers and said, with emphasis in 
his voice, 

“ Children, you have come hither to be saved from hea- 
thenish darkness, and to subject your reason to the will of 
Christ ? ” 

They bowed assent. 

“ Good ! Give your names and residences to this brother 
presbyter. You will obtain from him a written certificate, 
which, shown to the proconsular treasurer, will procure you 
a new holiday robe. Clad in this you will find yourselves 
on the next Lord’s day in our cathedral, to receive the lay- 
ing on of hands to a new life; after wdiich you will secure 
to yourselves from the aforesaid treasurer, upon the same 
certificate, ten pieces of gold each. Presbyter Gregorius, 


The Last Athenian. 99 

give them the certificates and impress anew what I have 
said to them ! ” 

With these words Peter turned his back upon the salva- 
tion seekers, to continue his interview with Chrysanteus. 
To receive and deal with apostate heathen was at that time 
an every day occupation for bishops, and required no 
further ceremony. 

“You see/’ said Peter, “ thus daily stream new throngs 
to the banner of the cross. You and your wisdom cannot 
satisfy thirsty souls, longing after a fountain of living 
water. Man,’ 7 says Tertullian, “ is by nature Christian ; 
behold in this the cause of his longing, the instinct which 
leads him hither.” 

“ I wish it were so.” 

“ Truly?” 

“ Por it would wipe out the contemptible, if not lamenta- 
ble, in the spectacle to which you seem to have bidden 
me.” 

“We break the rough ore, — it matters not with what in- 
strument, — only to refine it.” 

“But to business ! You spoke of an edict, which con- 
cerned the city of Athens. Make our conversation as short 
as possible ! ” 

“ Look ! ” 

Peter took up an ivory tablet which was lying on the 
table, and smiling, handed it to the archon. While the 
latter read, Peter’s eyes were fastened upon his features, 
enjoying the painful surprise they manifested. 

Chrysanteus returned the tablet. His countenance ex- 
pressed anger and pain, which he sought not to conceal. 

“This edict,” said he, “would thus present you, Christians, 
with the War-God’s temple, one of the most beautiful in 
Athens, filled with relics from our glorious days. Yet this is 
not the first time such an event has happened. Does not 
the emperor bestow rewards upon those cities, that pull down 


100 


The Last Athenian. 


the buildings, erected to the divine powers, to heroes and 
benefactors of the human race ? And what is given you 
you destroy, that from the noble ruins you may set up a 
piece of patch work, — worthy, it is true, the abomination 
you shut up there, — these skeletons and limbs of saints, 
these loathsome remnants of death, you kiss and worship.’’ 

“ Merciful God ! what blasphemy ! ” sighed one of the 
secretaries, while the other crossed himself. Young Clem- 
ens, who had returned during the conversation, raised him- 
self from his leaning posture ; a flush of anger mantled his 
cheeks, and he repressed with effort a word of wrath, which 
was already trembling on his lips. 

But Peter smiled and said: 

“If it will give you any comfort, you may know the 
temple will not be torn down. I hope that it can be made 
fit for use, after we have scraped and smoked its walls, 
sprinkled them with holy water, and removed everything 
that might remind one of the evil spirit you have there 
adored.” 

“ But,” said Chrysanteus with a shrug, “ under the edict 
I see a name to which I do not owe obedience. Who is 
this Macedonius, who dares to give away what he does not 
own ? The temples with its treasures, its historical relics 
and works of art, belongs to the city of Athens. Our 
fathers built it, and their descendants to this day have en- 
riched and guarded it. How then can one of your priests, 
a stranger entirely unknown to Athens, rob us of our 
own ? ” 

“We take possession of it to-morrow,” answered Peter. 

“ There is nothing left to us, then, but to protest to the 
emperor.” 

“ Who will not hear you ! ” 

“I know it,” said Chrysanteus with a deep sigh, and the 
veins in his forehead swelled with blood from his com- 
pressed heart. 

“And for that matter,” continued Peter, « read this ! ” 


The Last Athenian. 


101 


He produced another ivory tablet enveloped in golden 
cloth, the frame ornamented with coarse bas-reliefs repre- 
senting races and the like, about the names Taurus et 
Fulgentius , consuls for the year; this he handed to Chry- 
santeus. After the latter had glanced over it, he said, 

“ I see that the imperial government approves of this 
strange gift.” 

“ And as I have said, I take possession of it to-morrow. 
You find it strange. This is a mild expression in your 
mouth; you mean more. But you and yours have not 
strength to offer resistance. The power of the Philistines 
is broken.” 

Chrysanteus’ thoughts flew to Julian* The power of the 
Philistines was not yet broken. Their last fight remained. 

It seemed as if Peter read the thought, for when Chry- 
santeus asked : “ Have you anything further to tell me ? ” 
he remarked : 

“1 have to-day received news from Julian. Will you 
hear it ? ” 

This question was accompanied with a look of triumph, 
which caused the otherwise strong man to shudder with 
secret dread. The same sensation which seizes the way- 
farer when, seating himself to rest in the grass, he feels a 
cold, squirming snake under his hand, extorted from Chry- 
santeus an instinctive “ No ! ” He arranged his robe, 
bowed to the bishop and the others in the room and went 
towards the door. 

“ Farewell, philosopher ! Think of your insignificance 
before God, and your soul’s salvation ! ” exclaimed the young 
reader, his eyes fastened upon Chrysanteus. 

The latter stood and regarded the youth with a firm and 
searching look, which suddenly became mild and friendly, 
when he discovered in the reader’s handsome face not scorn, 
not pride, but only zealous candor. Clemens’ eyes were so 
clear and serious. “ Good intent gives worth to your young 
lips,” said Chrysanteus, departing. 


102 


The Last Athenian. 


Coming out into the hall and making his way between 
the waiting priests, he felt himself suddenly embraced by 
some one, whom by the torch light he recognized as no less 
a personage than the proconsul of Achaia. 

“Ah, what do I see ? ” exclaimed the latter ; “ My own 
Chrysanteus ! You are then really returned to our good Ath- 
ens ? For days have I everywhere vainly sought my archon. 
Welcome ! thrice welcome ! I see,” continued he whispering, 
“you have been to the bishop. Even I am called to him. 
Called — do you understand ? The proconsul of Achaia runs 
at the bidding of a priest ! But why not conform to the 
circumstances of the times, since the emperor will have it 
so ? Love for our holy church works miracles, my friend ! 
— but you do not understand this, and I pardon your weak- 
ness. You do not comprehend theology. Omnia vincit 
amor et nos cedarnus amori ! ” 

And the proconsul rolled on towards the door of the office 
which the ostiarian threw wide open for his illustrious and 
noble person. 

The bishop retired with his distinguished guest to one of 
his private rooms, whose prodigal magnificence strove to 
justify itself in the holy forms it assumed ; the floor, a 
mosaic of shining stones, represented Gideon breaking the 
altars of idolatry ; the chairs and sofas were inlaid with holy 
symbols in ivory and silver, and supported gold-fringed, 
purple cushions ; the massive silver vases and candelabra 
were angels and tabernacles, the panels between the pilas- 
ters were painted with the figures of the apostles. 

The conversation opened by the bishop complaining of 
the insecurity which prevailed on the highways of Achaia. 
It had often happened of late that messengers, sent to him 
from Constantinople and Corinth had been waylaid and 
robbed of his letters. “ This,” remarked the bishop, “ does 
the governor of Achaia little honor.” 

Annaeus Domitius excused himself with the general 


The Last Athenian. 


103 


insecurity of the times. The condition of Achaia was 
better than that of most other provinces. In consequence 
of Julian’s disturbance a considerable portion of the troops, 
formerly under the proconsul’s orders, had been withdrawn 
to Constantinople. The remainder were allotted tojsuch 
points as imperatively demanded garrisons ; Corinth, 
Athens, Argos, Sparta, and now also Delphi, — the poor 
Delphi, plundered by that Donatist band, which had been 
driven by storms to Hellas, and found a home among the 
inaccessible cliffs of Parnassus. What then should the pro- 
consul do ? 

He concealed the fact that the bishop’s plundered let- 
ters were in his own hands. The despatches he now and 
then received from the imperial government could not, he 
well knew, be compared in reliability with the confidential 
letters the bishops sent one another by their own messen- 
gers, generally priests under their orders. In the letters 
from Macedonius to Peter, Annaeus Domitius received the 
best accounts of the condition of the rebellion, of the 
cabals at court, and the intrigues there playing for and 
against himself. 

The proconsul’s minions had not, however, succeeded in 
possessing themselves of one letter from Macedonius, which 
that very day had been delivered to Peter. This letter, 
— containing much that the proconsul through his different 
correspondents already knew, but also some things of 
which he had not the slightest idea — was written in cipher, 
and communicated to Peter, among other matters, the fol- 
lowing : — • 

“ The emperor’s health,” so Eusebius 

writes me, “ is extremely infirm. After he had shut him- 
self up in his palace for many days, only allowing himself 
to be seen by Apodemius and Eusebius, officers in waiting, 
and refusing to receive our Eusebius, bishop of Nicomedia, 
— which, by the way, created the greatest uneasiness 


104 


The Last Athenian. 


among the orthodox and gave the ever-spying Athanasians 
the wildest expectations, — he is now at last accessible to his 
friends ; but appears, to their great consternation, troubled 
by horrible visions, and speaks as if he were seized with de- 
lirium. The pious ruler, whose soul was sunk in holy con- 
templations and deep investigations into the divine myste- 
ries, suffers now under the strange hallucination, that he 
is pursued by the Delphic Apollo ! Eusebius has sought to 
exorcise this devil, hut alas ! without success. May the 
Lord preserve the precious life of his most holy majesty ! 
His demise will he an awful misfortune, — the ruin of our- 
selves and the truth, if we do not find means to secure our 

position, whatever may happen The followers of 

Athanasius are burning with hate and madness ; with im- 
patience they bide the moment when Constantius, our sup- 
port, shall fall We have yet, if only for a few 

days, the sword of power in our own hands .... You 
know what has taken place in Constantinople ........ 

The chastisement was severe, but not sufficient A 

universal greeting goes forth to our own, that each in his 
own city do what he can, while the opportunity lasts.” 

Macedonius had not signed the letter, for it was high 
treason to write about the emperor’s health, even if it were 
described as good. 

While the proconsul was complaining of the want of 
troops, which prevented him from maintaining proper order 
in Achaia, Peter asked him how large a garrison there 
was in Athens at present. “ Seven hundred legionaries and 
fifty men of the Jovian guard,” explained Annaeus Domi- 
tius. 

“ A paltry force for such a city,” remarked the bishop. 
“The legionaries’ commander, Pylades, is, I think, an 
orthodox Christian ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And the troops reliable ? ” 


The Last Athenian. 


105 


“ Yes, my bishop.” 

“ The leader of the Jovians is however a heathen, is he 
not ? ” 

“Yes. Ammianus Marcellinus is an incorrigible hea- 
then, but a fine soldier.” 

“ Good ! It matters not so much that he is a heathen. 
Are there any Athanasians among the troops ? ” 

“Not among the officers, at least. The Homoousians 
among them, are removed. And for that matter, my Peter, 
well disciplined troops, like these, have no other religion 
than their commanders ! Lamentable or not, it is unques- 
tionably true.” 

“Circumstances will compel me, perhaps, to desire the 
assistance of worldly power. I wish that all the troops 
may be placed under my orders.” 

“ You have the right to request this. Shall it take place 
this evening ? ” — - 

“No, it is time enough to-morrow.” 

“ May I venture to inquire the cause ? ” 

“ That you shall know in good season.” 

“I desire then, simply a written statement, that you 
request command of the imperial troops in Athens.” 

Peter wrote out the required paper immediately, and 
Annaeus Domitius placed it in his girdle. 

The proconsul’s countenance expressed a secret joy. 
He foresaw what was impending and had suddenly received 
an inspiration, how, by making use of coming events he 
could slip unharmed out of the tight place in which the 
governmental despatch about Chrysanteus had placed 
him. 

The city must within a few days he the theatre of a 
bloody, horrible catastrophe. At such times much can pass 
unnoticed. The proconsul saw that it concerned the 
Athanasians ; but one or two heathen could, by mistake or 
carelessness be thrown in. On such occasions all the pas- 


106 


The Last Athenian. 


sions are let loose. Least of all could Annaeus JDomitius, 
after he had placed the entire garrison under the bishop’s 
orders, hinder a rapacious mob from plundering the rich 
Chrysanteus’ house, or a fanatical throng .from seizing the 
hated Chrysanteus’ person. For the rest, Annaeus Dom- 
itius intended in good time to shake the dust from his feet 
and betake himself, with his beautiful Eusebia, to Corinth, 
whither weighty, irrepressible questions of state of course 
called him. Come then what 'would, he knew that no gov- 
ernment could be displeased, if he neglected to avail him- 
self of the right of taking a dead man’s head, though no 
one rewarded him for omitting it. 

While Annaeus Domitius revolved these thoughts, Peter’s 
conversation changed to the very person who was their 
object. He asked in a whisper, for he was well aware of his 
presbyters’ and deacons’ practised ears, — if the proconsul 
had received an order from the court to take the head of the 
archon. 

Annaeus answered in the negative, smiling and playing 
with his necklace. 

A sigh relieved Peter’s bosom, for the bishop had actually 
feared the existence of such an order. 

“ So much the better,” said he. “ He is considered at 
the court as an eager supporter of Julian’s rebellion, and as 
a person dangerous by reason of his influence and riches. 
I have out of pure pity exerted myself in his behalf with 
the Eusebii- and Apodemius. He has indeed his good 
side — ” n 

“ Without doubt.” 

“ And perhaps my statements have borne fruit. But it 
is at the same time uncertain if such an order may not yet 
arrive this evening, or to-morrow, when one leasts expects 
it. Between us,” — Peter again sunk his voice to a whis- 
per, — “ it is dangerous to be rich in these times. The court 
eunuchs you comprehend ? ” 


The Last Athenian. 


107 


Annaeus smiled and nodded assent. He thought, how- 
ever, not only of the court’s eunuchs, but also of its bish- 
ops. He then regarded his swelling calves and swore a 
silent oath against his alipilarius * for his sharp eye 
detected on his right shin a hair, which had escaped the 
searching slave. 

“ But,” continued Peter, “ that to which I will now 
come, is a prayer to you, my illustrious and noble master, 
and likewise an exhortation, given by the shepherd to one 
of the sheep in his flock. Before you hurt a hair of Chry- 
santeus’ head, you must acquaint me of it. I beg this of 
you as the highest proof of your friendship, and I conjure 
you in the name of the holy universal church, which would 
suffer a severe, an irreparable loss, if you should forget the 
prayer I now offer to your heart and mine.” 

The proconsul affirmed, that he should be most happy, if 
in so small a matter he could show the boundless respect 
and affection he entertained for the bishop of Athens. 

After Peter had shown the dispatch from the imperial 
ministers, authorizing the Christians to take possession of 
the temple of the War-God, and the proconsul had promised 
to arrange all the preliminaries required, the interview 
closed. 

Annaeus Domitius departed, fortunately concealing the 
bitter anger he felt on account of such a communication 
being first sent to the bishop instead of himself. 

“ These priests,” thought he, as he stepped out into the 
street Ceramicus, “ will at last grow over the head of the 
emperor himself.” 

* The slave, whose office was to pluck out hairs. 


108 


The Last Athenian. 


CHAPTER VII. 

PETER. 

The secretaries and waiting priests had departed. The 
moon, rising over Lycabettus, shed its light upon the west- 
ern colonnade in the deserted court. 

Peter was alone in his study, through whose only win- 
dow, fashioned like a port-hole, the moonbeams streamed, 
contending with the light of a lamp, on a ponderous table, 
whose rays were directed by means of a shade, upon an 
open hook. 

Hot far from the table stood a cupboard, fashioned in the 
same heavy style as the table, and supporting a book case, 
which contained some volumes and rolls of papyrus. 

On the wall opposite the book-case hung a map of the 
world, drawn in accordance with Ptolemy’s idea of the di- 
visions of land and water. On this map the bishop had 
marked out with fine but distinct lines the boundaries of 
each mother-church : you could see how the Orient was 
divided into the patriarchates of Constantinople, Corinth, 
Antioch, Jerusalem and Alexandria, how these were crowd- 
ed together on one side of the world, while the rest com- 
posed one enormous whole, embracing Italy, Africa, Mau- 
retania, Hispania, Gaul and Britannia — with its centre at 
Rome. 

Rome’s name alone was yet a power. Dreading the 
memory of freedom, whose ghost still wandered there, the 
first Christian emperor had removed his court to the new 
capital he had built on the Bosphorus. He had lavished 
the treasures of the world to give this creation of his a 
splendor and greatness that might rival, and if possible sur- 
pass, that of the old Tiber city. He had robbed a thousand 
towns of their works of art to embellish this. He had 


The Last Athenian. 


109 


called his city New Nome, that, with the name, it might also 
inherit the respect and adoration bestowed upon the old. 

But for the people old Borne was, and remained, the capi- 
tal of the world, and in spite of Constantine’s exertions, 
the pretensions of the New rested principally on the idle 
saying, that half of the old senatorial and patrician families 
had moved hither and settled within its walls. So great is 
the power of memory, name and custom. 

The importance of the old city in its capacity as an episco- 
pal seat, was increased by this very removal of the emperor 
and court. 

When Peter, standing before the map, drew these lines, 
his hand was accompanied by a thought, which had long 
been clear to his mind, that neither Constantinople, nor 
Alexandria, nor any other of the oriental patriarchates, but 
Rome , was destined to become the central point and 
supreme seat for that priestly power, which now like an 
immense polyp, with daily multiplying and ever lengthen- 
ing arms, was clutching in the whole world, from the steppes 
of Scythia to the ocean. 

Was it not universally believed that both the great 
apostles, Peter and Paul, had suffered martyrdom at Borne ! 
Had not Peter founded the first Christian congregation 
there, and was he not regarded as its first bishop ? 

Was not Simon, whom Christ called Peter, the rock on 
which He should build His church? Was it not he, to 
whom the Master said, “Feed my sheep!” and to whom 
alone He gave the keys of Heaven, that He might show 
how the unity of church and priesthood should proceed 
from one point ; that He might make manifest the unity of 
the church and episcopal power ? 

Had not Cyprianus, the martyr{ already called Borne 
Peter’s Cathedral, and put forth to Christendom that grave 
question : “ Who can pretend to be a member of Christ’s 

church, if he has separated himself from the bishopric of 
Peter, on which the church is built?” 

7 / 


110 


The Last Athenian. 


The bishop of Athens stood now, as a hundred times 
before in his ■mighty contemplations, in front of Ptolemy’s 
map, revolving these thoughts in his mind. And he con- 
tinued : 

Already Irenseus recognizes the precedence of Pome to 
all other episcopal seats. The proud Victor, the bold Ste- 
phen, have long ago striven to make this valid. And what 
is more, it has entered into the ideas of the countless 
masses of men who make up the great West. Even now 
they look with holy reverence to the bishop of Pome. On the 
ideas of the people depends the power which governs them. 
What matters it, if the East, that over-crowded, divided, 
enslaved land, deny the Poman bishop’s supremacy ? Alas, 
we have a more wretched master, a prince of this world, 
who crams his changing interpretations down our throats 
and stamps as an evident lie what our councils write under 
their decisions : “ Inspired by the Holy Spirit.” Alas they 
have long been inspired by Constantius’ spirit. We must 
comfort ourselves with the belief, that in certain cases at 
least there is one of our own, the priceless Eusebius, who in 
turn, influences the emperor. But where, if not at Pome, 
can that power grow up, which will deliver the church 
from ignominious thraldom to an earthly prince and lay the 
worldly power, where it ought to be, if it exist at all — at 
the feet of the church. 

We believe that the power of the Holy Spirit has, b y the 
laying on of hands, been transmitted within the church to 
our days. This doctrine is the corner stone of Pome’s 
greatness, for the power of the Spirit cannot be separated 
from Christ’s office, which with the keys of Heaven was 
delivered to the first bishop of Pome, and through him 
transmitted by the laying on of hands from one successor to 
another. The unbroken succession of the Poman bishops 
forms then the main artery, from which the Holy Spirit’s 
power, like living blood, streams into all parts of the 


The Last Athenian. 


Ill 


body of the Church, through countless canals and ramifica- 
tions : from Rome’s Church-Prince to the bishops conse- 
crated by him, from them to the lower orders of the priest- 
hood, and from them in turn to the masses of the people. 
So flows this mighty stream from hand to head, to water 
the most remote regions. And for this reason is he, who 
separates himself from the body of the Church, like a limb 
cut off. He excludes himself from participation in the di- 
vine life and the grace of the Redemption. He cannot ac- 
quire this grace for himself by faith alone in the Redeemer. 
Grace is gained only by union with the Church, the body 
of the Trinity. 

Sublime doctrine of the unity of church and confession ! 

Thou waxest up from a little mustard seed, scarcely dis- 
cernible in the Scriptures, to a mighty tree, which shall 
overshadow the earth. Thou art bolder than any human 
thought, and no human wisdom has succeeded in finding 
anything to be compared with thee. The means, which the 
craftiest of the children of men have invented, for gaining 
power over their kind, are as nothing against thee. In thy 
bosom thou bearest a might, to which the peoples and kings 
of the earth shall bow the knee. The dominion thou canst 
vouchsafe, shall extend itself not only to riches, life and 
mortal bodies, but to souls. Thou thyself shall clip the 
wings of thought, and change the free eagle to an ostrich, 
which, tame and harnessed, is led in the way he should go. 
Thou shalt touch the cords to the very innermost emotions 
of man — terrify when thou wilt, — comfort when thou wilt. 
At thy nod, shall brother take up arms against brother, 
mother disown her child, and child its mother, bridegroom 
and bride turn from each other and hide their tears of 
anguish, as if wrung from them by a criminal desire. At 
thy nod shall the flames of war and hate die out, enemy bo 
reconciled to enemy, the lord humble himself before the 
slave, peace rule over the earth. 


112 


The Last Athenian. 


Thy chain of reasoning is wrought with diamond links, 
compared with which the syllogisms of philosophers are as 
cobwebs. With the power of inexorable necessity thou 
shalt force thyself upon the world and lay her in thy chains. 
And he who shakes these chains, — death to him, he shall be 
blotted out of Israel, for him are shut the gates of human 
fellowship and salvation, for him are lit the eternal fires of 
hell. 

Thou lackest only one thing ; a man who can use thee. 

I know two that could do this. The one is Athanasius, 
that indomitable, wonderful, cunning, awful old man, 
the deadly enemy of the orthodox and the soul of heresy, 
never cast down or dismayed, the new Proteus who, ever 
the same, shows himself in a thousand forms ; outlawed, 
banished, pursued by chariots and riders, he yet appears 
when one least expects him, and vanishes before one has 
gathered sense to seize him, who lurks in Constantinople 
outside the emperor’s door while they are hunting him in 
Gaul, who is sought after in Borne, while he is hiding among 
the monks in the deserts of Egypt, who shows himself per- 
haps here at Athens, while George trembles with the rumor, 
that he has concealed himself in Alexandria. 

Luckily Athanasius has never looked towards Borne. 
His exertions concern the bishopric he has so often held and 
lost, — Alexandria. He has not got his eyes open to the 
importance of Borne. Strange enough ! 

Strange enough and fortunate! For the other, who 
would else find in Athanasius too powerful a rival, is my- 
self! 

Peter left his position before the map, cast himself into 
an arm chair and sank into thoughts of his colossal plans 
for the future. 

He had that very day taken a step towards his daring 
object. With sums, appropriated by the imperial treasury 
for the mission then most zealously conducted among the 


The Last Athenian. 


113 


Goths, he had equipped two missionaries, — young priests 
educated to blind obedience, fanatically attached to Homoi- 
ousion, and governed to their inmost soul by Peter, and 
sent them, not to the barbarians, but to Rome, to preach 
Homoiousion and spread the renown of Peter among the 
Roman communion. 

The book, which lay open on the table under the lamp’s 
rays, was Tertullian’s treatise De Came Christi. He read it, 
not from curiosity, but to learn the language of the western 
church, — Latin, — to learn from this master’s hard, almost 
wild, but powerful and transporting eloquence, the right 
wa}’ - to use a necessary lever for his plan. 

The moonlight, streaming in through the window, fell 
now upon his face and aw r akened him to the thought of 
duties which in respect to time lay nearer. He rang, and a 
man in priestly dress, who seemed to have awaited this 
signal, immediately presented himself. 

The new comer was an undersized, broad-shouldered per- 
son, but with so short a neck, that the strangely-formed 
head with its black locks, seemed to be set directly between 
the shoulders. His low forehead formed but a sallow strip 
between his hair and the broad grown- together eyebrows. 
As the man carried his head a little bent forward, his small 
black eyes were turned up whenever he looked at any one, 
giving his countenance an expression which a liberal be- 
holder might possibly interpret as pious and humble. 

This man was Peter’s most trusted confidant, Euphe- 
mius, the eldest presbyter. 

The confidence between them was in reality very great 
but it never caused the presbyter to forget that Peter was 
his superior. Euphemius did not take a seat till the bishop 
pointed to a chair and put a question, which he then an- 
swered in humble tone with short, explicit, counted words. 

“ You have to-day been with the widow Apollonia ? ” 
asked the bishop. 


114 


The Last Athenian . 


“ I came from her sick-bed a half an hour ago.” 

“ She dies prepared ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And her testament ? ” 

“ Is written and signed in legal form.” 

“ You should not leave her alone with the heirs, for it 
might yet happen, that — you understand ? ” 

“ George relieved me and sits now at her bed side. She 
shall not be left alone a moment. She will probably expire 
to-morrow.” 

“ God save her soul ! She was always a pious woman. 
She awaits with peace and joy her dissolution ? ” 

“ Yes, praised be God ! ” 

“ And the testament ? ” 

“ To-morrow it shall be in your hands.” 

“ The contents ? ” 

“Ah, most worshipful father, she has neither forgotten 
the church nor you, her father-confessor, nor the natural 
claim of her relations. She has even remembered me, the 
noble, pious woman, with a legacy the most valuable and 
precious of all ” 

The bishop started. A dark shadow crossed his brow, 
and he fastened a lightning look on the presbyter. 

“ You ? ” he said with a suppressed voice. “ She has 
remembered you with the greatest and most precious legacy 
of all ? Well, I wish you joy most heartily.” 

“ Yes,” answered Euphemius humbly, and his small 
black eyes gazed piously, but steadily, from under his broad 
eyebrows, into the bishop’s face. “ I am in truth not 
worthy such a fortune, but when the Lord has permitted it 
to fall upon me, I receive it with the deepest joy and 
thanksgiving.” 

Ah, you villain, you have then betrayed my confidence 
and fished in muddy water, thought the bishop, — but it 
shall cost you dear. “ Recount,” said he aloud, “ the testa- 
ment’s separate provisions! ” 


The Last Athenian. 


115 


" Apollonia bequeaths to the church her house in the city, 
a lot on Piraean street, and her lands beyond the Melitian 
gate ; in a word, her entire real estate.” 

“ The pious, excellent woman ! It shall be repaid her a 
thousand fold above. But continue ! ” 

“ To you, her shepherd and confessor, she gives her ready 

money, together with all her gold and silver ” 

“ I am unworthy such goodness,” said the bishop, walk- 
ing to and fro over the floor, “ but pass by this and con- 
tinue ! ” 

“ Her relations, who consist of an aged sister, an unmar- 
ried niece, and a little nephew five years old, have been re- 
membered with the remaining personal propert} r : furniture, 
household utensils and a female slave.” 

“And yourself?” exclaimed the bishop, as he again 
stood before Euphemius and regarded him with a searching 
look. 

It would be impossible to describe the expression in the 
short-necked presbyter’s face as he sat at that moment with 
folded arms, and bowed head, the strange eyes gazing up 
between their lashes steadfastly at Peter. Those eyes shot 
a flash, — whether of anger or joy it is hard to say. He 
sighed and answered, 

“ Ah, my loved bishop, your humble servant blushes over 
his unworthiness. I could not imagine such a fortune. 
But I have known you to little purpose, if I could believe 
that you would suspect, that I by persuasion or other means 
have induced the good widow, to the disadvantage of the 

church or yourself, but for my own gain ” 

“Good, good ! ” interrupted the bishop, casting a crushing 
look upon his short-necked companion. “What does the 
widow’s testament give you ? ” 

With a new sigh, which smacked strongly of secret bit- 
terness, the short-necked answered as he cast down his 
eyes. 


116 


The Last Athenian . 


“The nohle Apollonia, in return for the trifling but sin- 
cere offices with which I surrounded her sick-bed, has 
named me as the possessor of her deafest treasure — three 
hairs from the beard of the holy martyr Polycarp, preserved 
in a glass bottle.” 

“ Oh, enviable man ! ” exclaimed the bishop with hypo- 
critical rapture, while a smile of contempt, he could not re- 
strain, played around his lips. 

“I am in truth to be envied,” chimed in Euphemius, 
biting his nails. 

“I should wish to exchange with you,” continued the 
bishop, “were it not our holy duty to fulfil to the letter the 
testament of the pious Apollonia.” 

“Nay, nay, I will not exchange, you must not exact too 
much from me, oh father. I will not exchange.” 

“ But now to another matter,” continued the bishop with 
an appeased expression, pacing up and down the long, nar- 
row room. “ You were to visit Baruk the Jew, this fore- 
noon.” 

“I found him at home.” 

“And you induced him to disclose what we wish to 
know?” 

“ Yes, after some difficulty.” 

“ I impressed upon you how to go to work, and left the 
rest to your shrewdness. How much does Charmides owe 
him ? ” 

Euphemius took a paper from under his cloak, and 
handed it to the bishop. The latter glanced over it, and 
exclaimed : 

“ He is a fearful spendthrift. This cannot last long.” 

“ J ust what I said to Baruk.” 

“ With what effect ? ” 

“ When I pointed out the possibility that the securities 
he held would not be sufficient to protect him against loss, 
he turned pale as a corpse and trembled.” 


The Last Athenian. 


117 


“Aha?” 

“He will press Charmides very hard.” 

“ You are assured of this ? ” 

« Yes.” 

“ Excellent, my good Euphemius. Has Charmides been 
seen in Athenagoras’ company ? ” 

“Yes, he and certain others of the lost young heathen of 
Athens, have been seen late at night or towards morning, 
departing from Athenagoras’ house.” 

“That is good. This Athenagoras is a sower and his 
way through the lands a furrow, in which despair and the 
pangs of conscience spring up. But the harvest, please 
God, often gives the purest seed into the store house of 
Christendom. On this account may he continue his work. 
The Lord turneth evil into good.” 

“ Alas, the proconsul also has been seen in Athenago- 
ras’ — ” 

“We will not speak of the proconsul my son. He has 
his failings, as well as his great merits. Let us return to 
Charmides ! Have you obtained more of the information 
I require concerning this unhappy young man ? ” 

“ Somewhat, my father.” 

“ Let us hear ! ” 

“ Alcmene speaks occasionally with the pretty slave hoy 
he bought.” 

“ I know — at a fabulous price. All Athens talks about 
it. But go on ! What has Alcmene learned from the 
hoy?” 

“ Only that his master is awfully gloomy, when left alone. 
He drinks at such times intoxicating wines, disdaining 
to mix them with water. There are days when he locks 
himself in and allows no one to see him except his wait- 
ing slave. He then broods over sorrowful thoughts and 
drinks incessantly. But otherwise he avoids solitude, pass- 
ing his days in wild company, from which he generally 


118 


The Last Athenian. 


escorts home those infamous beauties, Myro and Praxinoa, 
who conduct and rule his house like mistresses, command 
the slaves, arrange banquets, turn everything upside down, 
and commit the most horrible follies. I shudder at the 
very thought of such a life, my father.” 

“ Well may you. Capital, capital ! ” muttered Peter, 
and then added, “ you have spoken of the young girl, who 
is waiting maid to Chrysanteus’ daughter. What is her 
name ? ” 

“ Alcmene.” 

“ Have you met her to-day ? ” 

“Yes. She expressed conscientious scruples at having 
to conceal her faith and unite in the heathenish customs of 
her master’s house.” 

“ You pacified her with the assurance that she is offering 
herself up for a good object ? ” 

“Yes, and I promised her absolution from yourself.” 

“ She shall receive it. What had she this time to tell ? ” 
“ Very little.” # 

“ Nothing of their mysterious absence from Athens ? ” 

“ She has endeavored to draw her mistress out on this 
very point. It seems to have been only a pleasure trip.” 

“ Among the guests who visit Chrysanteus’ house, is 
there still no one especially favored by Hermione ? ” 

“ No. Hermione seems really to mean what she in con- 
fidence told Alcmene, that she shall devote her whole life to 
her father.” 

“ And in respect to Charmides ? ” 

“ Chrysanteus has forbidden him his house.” 

“ That is an old story.” 

“ And Hermione has forbidden Alcmene to speak his 
name.” 

“ That means more,” muttered the bishop, “ but is, if I 
judge rightly, a good sign. Such a woman does not easily 
forget. They have loved each other from childhood — and 


The Last Athenian . 


119 


Charmides is a devil incarnate with his seductive ways. 
Euphemius,” he added aloud, “ this Alcmene seems to he 
unfit for her place.” 

“ No,” replied Euphemius with decision, “ she is uncom- 
monly wise and crafty.” 

“ And has nevertheless not succeeded in winning her 
mistress’ full confidence.” 

“ I shall give her new rules of conduct.” 

“ Especially in respect to Charmides ! ” 

“ Yes, my father.” 

“ Have they never discovered any trace of the tender 
boy, Hermione’s brother, who sixteen years ago vanished 
from their house ? ” 

“ Probably not. Chrysanteus still laments him. He is 
still, says Alcmene, the object of the prayers father and 
daughter every evening send up together to their impotent 
gods ; and Hermione never forgets to tell Alcmene, when 
she has dreamed of her brother. Eor it is a delightful 
dream to her.” 

“ Alcmene says this ? ” 

“ Yes, these are her words.” 

“ You have not been to Theodorus since morning ? ” 

“ No, not since I carried food to him.” 

“His stubbornness gives me the greatest distress. I 
hope, however, that the means we now employ, will break 
it.” 

“He was still full of blasphemy this morning, my 
father.” 

“ Fifteen hours have flown by since then. These hours 
have been long ones for him. He has had time for reflec- 
tion. When you visit him in prison, early to-morrow morn- 
ing, place ajar of water outside the grated door, so that he 
can see, but not reach it. God will do the same to me and 
more also, if I do not quell the rebellious spirit in this per- 
verse son ! ” 


120 


The Last Athenian . 


11 Amen ! ” muttered Eupheinius. 

u The evening is far spent. Go now to rest. But first 
tell Clemens, I am ready.” 

“ I will. I wish you a pleasant night, my father ! ” 

The short-necked disappeared through a door leading to 
the peristyle. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

THE PILLAR SAINT. 

A few moments after, two persons, enveloped in cloaks, 
passed across the court and stepped through the vestibule 
out into the street Ceramicus. They were the bishop and 
the young reader. 

The long street opened towards the south on the market, 
and on the north ended at Dipylum or the double gate, be- 
yond which the most honorable burial ground, the Pere 
La Chaise of Athens, was situated. Through the left arch 
of the double-gate you passed out upon the so called sacred 
way, leading to Eleusis ; through the right arch you saw 
the straight road, shaded by elms and plane trees, which led 
to the Academia and gardens of the Platonic philosophers. 

The street was yet alive with promenaders, lured hither 
by the mild air and lovely moonlight. On the other side 
of the temple of Theseus the number of pedestrians became 
less, and farther on the silence of night was only broken by 
the step and weapon-clank of the passing patrol. Peter 
and Clemens chose the right arch way, passed by the legion- 
ary stationed there, and, after they had walked over a 
portion of the dark shaded way, directed their steps to the 
right through a grated iron gate, which led into the burial 
ground. 


The Last Athenian. 


121 


“ Clemens crossed himself and repeated a prayer as he 
trod this place, shunned by Christians. It was, notwith- 
standing, a noble spot, filled with beauty and lofty recollec- 
tions. Here rested the great men of Greece and of the 
human race, and the thousand upon thousand youths, whom 
the Athens of old had nursed in beauty and gladness to a 
hero’s early death. Temple-like monuments and broken 
pillars raised themselves above the dark groups of laurel 
and cypress, which shaded single memorial stones or half 
concealed, sad grottoes, where one caught a glimpse of urns 
and statues. Ceramicus’ cemetery was the history of 
Athens, chiseled in marble. 

Its present condition, its unkept plight, the weed-grown 
walks, the leaning monuments with their defaced inscrip- 
tions, the mutilated bas-reliefs and fallen statues spoke also 
with the tongue of history. Beyond the city wall, which 
on one side bounded the place, there looked down upon it 
from afar the lofty Acropolis with Pallas Athene’s giant 
statue, the Cyclopian walls and the temple’s colonnades 
rising above them, silvered by the moon. If a spirit dwelt 
within them, he saw and felt, what a human heart can feel 
in looking back on the past, when it laments a beauty that 
is lost, a power that is dead. 

“ Father,” said Clemens, as at Peter’s side he hastened 
his steps, “ the dead, who rest here, were heathen, but there 
were surely many among them who sought to walk in the 
right way ? ” 

“ Certainly,” answered Peter, “ they had the natural law 
written in their hearts.” 

“ And do you not believe,” asked Clemens, as he cast a 
mournful look upon the marble monuments, which peeped 
out between masses of foliage, “do you not believe that 
the Redeemer’ s death will be accounted even unto their sal- 
vation ? ” 

“ I believe it,” replied the bishop. “ When Christ after 


122 The Last Athenian . 

death descended into hell, he preached there redemption for 
heathen souls.” 

“ Oh, the goodness of God ! He rejects none of his 
children. The lost may return to his bosom.” 

The youth sighed deeply and was silent. Peter said : 

“ My son, you are thinking at this moment perhaps of 
your earthly father, the unknown, who gave you life ? ” 

“ Yes, you yourself awoke the thought, this evening, 
when you directed me to write my will.” 

“You are doubtless astonished, that I exhorted you to 
this.” 

“ Yes, what have I to give away ? I came with empty 
hands from Antioch, where your paternal goodness opened 
to me the way of studying for my holy calling. All I pos- 
sess I have received from you. You took me, when I was 
a helpless, forsaken babe, left to die of hunger. Oh, my 
poor, poor mother ! ” 

Clemens was overpowered by the thought of this mother, 
whom he knew not, the woman who could commit the most 
unnatural and horrid crime ; — forsake her tender helpless 
child. He stopped and hurst into tears. 

The bishop seized his hand and said : 

“ My loved Clemens, control your feelings ! Think no 
more of her. Even the tigress loves her whelps and de- 
fends them to the death.” 

“ Say not so, my father,” entreated the young reader, as 
he raised his tearful eyes. “ I know not the world and the 
human heart, but I do know, that my mother must have 
been terribly unhappy before so wild a determination rooted 
itself in her soul. Think you not, that she shed tears 
when she left me ? Ah, she must — ! She was in des- 
pair at that moment and knew not what she did. I believe, 
I am certain, that afterwards, soon enough, she returned to 
the place where she had laid me, and was in agony when 
she found me not.” 


The Last Athenian. 


123 


“ Believe it, Clemens ! You are right in doing so. It 
ought certainly to have been thus/ 7 remarked the bishop 
comfortingly. 

“ 0 that I could see her again,” thought Clemens as he 
fried his tears. “I would not upbraid her, no ! But she 
would certainly rejoice that her son lives, that God has had 
mercy on him and her.” 

The bishop continued: 

“ I bade you prepare your will, because it is possible that 
your birth will be brought to light. God’s ways are 
wonderful. Who knows, but you are heir to great posses- 
sions ? ” 

Clemens smiled sorrowfully at this wild supposition. “ Do 
you think this possible ! The will is and shall remain in 
your own hands. You can destroy it, should you, giving 
way to the temptation of unexpected riches, regret having 
placed them under my charge for the good of the church. 
I speak now only of possibilities, my son ; but he who burns 
with love for the church, hopes even for the impossible and 
i gives thought to everything that can benefit her.” 

u Ah, wherefore recount your motives ? You are as good, 
as you are wise and far-sighted. This I know, and it is 
j enough.” 

“ And I thought,” added the bishop mildly, “ I thought 
of your longing to depart hence. Your earthly tabernacle 
is weak, dear child. You are not destined to live long in 
this world.” 

“ I hope for this and think upon it with joy.” 

“ Happy he who can sit at the feet of the Lord, while 
the lot of others is to work in His vineyard. But even this 
work is necessary. The church needs regulators and 
defenders. I long, with you, to depart from these multi- 
; farious occupations, this contest and strife, to the silent 
contemplation, the patient waiting. But the battle field is 
my place, as long as my arm can wield the sword, for the 
I enemies of the truth are many and dangerous.” 


124 


The Last Athenian. 


Continuing their walk during this conversation, they left 
the cemetery through a gate, opposite that by which they 
had entered. 

Before them now lay in the moon’s clear light a plain, 
hounded on the right by a range of hills, over which the 
city wall wound its huge, gray girdle. The background 
was shut in by olive-clad steeps, from whose shadow stole 
forth a stream, coming from the other side of Lycabettus, 
and slowly winding its way among tall reeds, lone willows 
and cypress groves, reflecting brokenly the moon’s image, till 
hastening towards the river Cephissus it hid itself behind 
the long dark row of aged trees, which melted into the dis- 
tance and marked the road to the Academia. 

From the middle of this plain rose a solitary pillar, on 
whose top appeared a curious object, resembling a human 
figure. 

It was in reality a human being — an old man with bald 
head and gray flowing beard. He bent kneeling over the 
brink and held in his hand a line, as if he would measure 
the distance to the ground. 

This however was not his purpose. At the foot of the 
pillar stood three women, two of whom were endeavoring to 
push each other away, while both in struggling reached 
up the baskets they bore, striving to fasten them on the 
iron hook at the end of the line. 

“ Pious Simon,” called out one of them to the old man, 
“ it is only a loaf and — ” 

“ Away with you,” exclaimed the other, — “that you, who 
are a heretic, should dare to offer the holy orthodox 
Simon ” — 

A new push from the first woman broke off this speech. 

“ Good Simon, it is I, Tabitha, wife of Bathyllus, the 
olive seller, who so often comes to you” — 

“ Tabitha is a heretic, holy Simon. But I am Anastasia, 
widow Anastasia, who lives near Dipylum. You know me 
well. I come so often to you ” — 


The Last Athenian. 


125 


u It is only a loaf and some drops of wine ” — 
u It is poison she offers you, Simon ! I am Anastasia, 
the orthodox Anastasia — Awqy with you serpent ! — ” 
u Lama ragsciiu gojim ! ” sullenly thundered the old 
man’s voice from above. “ Accursed gossipers ! What 
are you about there ? ” 

The third woman now came to her friends’ help and 
wrenched the basket from Tabitha, so Anastasia had time 
to fasten her’s upon the line, which was at once drawn up. 

“ See there,” exclaimed Anastasia in triumph to Tabitha, 
who hastened to pick up the little wine bottle, that during 
the strife had fallen from her basket into the grass. “ See 
there, what have you for your trouble ? You have carried 
owls to Athens and hay to Megara. Have you not, say ! ” 
The old man on top of the pillar, emptied the contents 
of the basket, and cast it down to its owner. 

“ Flee hence, you chattering magpies ; ” he then shouted 
in a harsh and angry voice to the quarrelling women, “ or 
—or—” 

“ Come,” said Anastasia’s friend, taking her arm, “ we 
should not disturb him longer. He may become angry, and 
then you know, he speaks awful words.” 

The old man’s threat had so great an effect that the 
quarrelers, after a few more very short, but pointed utter- 
ances, separated. Anastasia took her empty basket on her 
arm and returned with her friend to the city, making a long 
detour on the way to avoid the heathen cemetery. Tabi- 
tha, humbled and sad, with her full basket, directed her 
steps towards the olive hills in the background, to the 
turfed cot of her husband, Bathyllus. 

Four years before, Peter had become bishop of Athens. 
Shortly after he removed a pillar from a heathen temple and 
erected it upon the plain outside the city walls, no one 
knew for what purpose. But one morning two youths, on 
their way to the Academia to hear Chrysanteus, were 
8 


126 


The Last Athenian. 


surprised by the sight of a figure, which appeared on top 
of the solitary pillar, performing the strangest antics. 
Astonished they drew nearer, and found that the figure was 
an old man, who kneeled, raised himself up and. kneeled 
again, with his face turned towards the rising sun. He con- 
tinued this movement as long as they looked at him. In- 
stead of pursuing their way to the Academia, the youths 
hastened back to town, and told what they had seen. The 
rumor spread with incredible activity among the inquisi- 
tive and lively populace, and during the whole day the 
inhabitants, Christians and heathen, streamed out through 
the double-gate, to scrutinize the new apparition. They 
hurried along, that they might not come too late ; the plain 
was covered with a variegated throng of pedestrians, 
coaches, riders and palanquins, with citizens, strangers, 
soldiers, women and children. But their haste was unnec- 
essary. At noon, the long-bearded, hideous, unknown 
being was still perched upon his strange post, and continued 
with short intervals^ his monotonous motions. He seemed 
not to see the thousands who swarmed around the pillar 
and regarded him with mingled emotions of curiosity, won- 
der, disgust and fear. But his face was now turned towards 
the south, whence the noonday sun shot down its burning 
rays. 

“ Who was he ? ” The superstitious among the heathen 
doubted if he were human ; they considered him as a mirac- 
ulous, horrible prodigy, which portended awful calamities, 
a phantom appearing, only to vanish again. But the key 
to the mystery was found, when towards evening the Chris- 
tian priesthood of the city, led by the bishop, with cross 
and banners marched out to the pillar, arranged themselves 
about it, sang psalms, kneeled, and in chorus besought the 
unknown’s blessing. The sun was just sinking, and the 
old man’s face turned towards the west; his bald head 
seemed to possess the heliotrope’s nature and thirst for the 


The Last Athenian. 


127 


sinking fireball’s last ray. When it had disappeared behind 
the cliffs of iEgaleus, he first looked down upon the multi- 
tude. His eyes were glaring and blood-shot, his beard fell 
down over the capital like long, matted, hanging moss. He 
stretched out his arms and muttered : “ I bless ye ! ” 

The man on the pillar was a Christian ascetic, — one of 
those marvels of self-torture, which a misconceived Chris- 
tianity has produced, in rivalry with the religions of India 
that teach annihilation — one of those mortals, who, pierced 
to their heart’s core by the contrast between the claims of 
the spirit and the world, strove to win the soul’s perfection 
by murdering their own nature — one of those, perhaps who, 
while they would uproot their sensual emotions, also found 
in bodily agony their only salvation from the consuming 
fires of a guilty conscience, and who finally were encouraged 
to continue upon this course to redouble their torments, to 
devise incredible means of increasing them, because they 
were transported by the worship of the wondering multi- 
tude and the saintly glory in this life, hoping for a higher 
blessedness, and inconceivable delights in the life to come. 

Simon, called the Pillar-Saint, was now known far and 
wide over the Christian world. Pilgrims journeyed from 
east and west to see him and receive his blessing. The 
brightness of his saintly glory was, if possible, increased by 
the declaration of Peter, that the pillar-man was a con- 
fesssor, one of the few survivors who, in the last persecution 
of the emperor Maximus had heroically suffered for their 
faith. Whence he came no one knew, unless the bishop. 

But all knew that Simon had passed four years upon the 
pillar’s capital, a spot of a few feet in circumference, with a 
precipice all around, and daily, from sunrise to sunset 
had repeated with certain intervals his kneelings. It was 
asserted that he knelt a thousand times a day. Pour sum- 
mers’ suns had there cast their fire on his head, four winters’ 
storms had there howled around him. His dress was a 


128 


The Last Athenian. 


bear skin and a rope which held it around him ; his only- 
household goods the line, with which he hoisted up the 
food brought him by the pious women of the city. He was 
the pride of the Christian populace ; both the great hostile 
parties, Homoousians and Homoiousians, contended for the 
honor of counting him among their numbers. The heathen, 
on the other hand, loathed the pillar-man, after he had 
ceased to be the object of their curiosity. They offered, it 
is true, flowers and incense to the divinities of life and joy, 
and crowned the beautiful statues art had given them. 
The Christians knelt before the skeletons of their saints. 
On this account it seemed to the heathen very natural, that 
the Christians should offer up a yet more ardent worship to 
this dirty, ugly, deformed old man, who possessed at least 
one merit over skeletons and mummies, that he was a liv- 
ing idol. 

Those heathen, whose religious feeling and love of the 
beautiful did not compel them to abhor him, regarded him 
with the same indifference as they did the triton, which for 
centuries had swung its weather-flag upon the Wind’s 
Tower at the market in Athens. Both the pillar-saint and 
the bronze triton seemed to be of the same material, alike 
insensible to sunshine and storm, alike firmly fastened upon 
their dizzy height. 

Asceticism and saint- worship are two of the horrible 
fruits, which grew in the bosom of the priest-church. That 
Christianity is a power which shall pervade and refine 
the worldly — not stifle it — that, as Clemens of Alexandria 
reminds us, even worldly affairs can be conducted in a spir- 
itual and divine manner, — this doctrine the priest-power 
wished to bury in forgetfulness, because in its results it 
would overturn everything that is called priesthood. The 
ascetic tendency of the times was encouraged by the 
power of the church, because this isolated life of ascetics and 
priests (that life which led directly to the most hideous vices, 


The Last Athenian. 


129 


the coarsest worldliness) must create an abyss between them 
and the great majority of the congregation, necessarily 
engaged in the busy pursuits of life. Thus arose the differ- 
ence between the clergy and the laity, thus was instilled 
into the latter that disastrous idea of two kinds of morality , 
the one with more rigid claims, (and therefore with greater 
privileges) for priests ; the other with lower claims as to 
spiritual life and pure morals, for laymen. Thus the latter 
forgot their high calling and cast away the sublime doctrine 
of a universal priesthood, together with the duties which 
should make this a reality. Thus the doctrine of Chris- 
tianity, freedom of conscience, the true democracy, was 
buried in deepest oblivion, or diluted to a homoeopathic 
nothing, and even to-day seldom awakes, when preached, 
other feelings than scorn or terror. And yet there was in 
it that little leaven, which shall pervade the great mass, — 
the possibility of the true ennobling of mankind. 

But let us return to Simon the pillar-saint. If he was 
insensible to the powers of nature, he was not perhaps 
to the worship offered himself, for on days when many 
strangers appeared to stare at him, he acted mildly towards 
the pious women who brought him bread, wine and water ; 
had he however been little noticed during the day, he would 
entertain them in the evening, after sunset, the only time 
he spoke, — with perplexing words and awful threats. 

The night Simon reserved to himself. He needed its 
hours to gather strength for the following day’s unchanging 
exertions. He sang his evening psalm about midnight, 
and after this no one might approach his pillar. He seemed 
to be ashamed of his dependence upon the natural law 
which bids rest interchange with motion, sleeping with 
waking. But if he slept, it was the light sleep of a bird, 
for the step of the lonely night traveller awoke him, and he 
was always ready to hurl horrid words after any one who 


130 


The Last Athenian. 


broke his rest. Both heathen and Christian therefore 
avoided passing over the pillar-field by night. 

The three women had departed ; and the bishop and 
reader as they approached the pillar, heard the saint, who 
now sat down to eat his supper, give a strange, cawing call, 
which was answered from a grove on the opposite side of 
the stream. The next moment a large black bird raised 
itself over the grove, directed its flight towards the pillar 
and fluttered about it with flapping wings, as if it wished 
but dared not alight. 

“ Come then, raven mine, raven mine ! ” called out the 
harsh voice of the saint. “ Come and eat your supper, 
raven mine ! There come then, come, raven mine, raven 
mine ! ” 

The raven answered these words with a mournful and 
suspicious croaking, but continued fluttering about the 
pillar, while the saint followed it with his hand, in which 
he had no doubt placed some crumbs of bread. 

“ There, do not be afraid ! I am no longer angry with 
you. I will not wring your neck,. raven mine. So come 
then, my bird. You are my good friend, my best friend, 
so come then, come ! ” 

The tone in which these assurances were given seemed 
to have an effect upon the raven. It lit upon a corner of 
the capital, but hopped backwards, threw up its wings, 
and uttered some guttural noises, when Simon stretched out 
his hand to catch it. Its suspicions, it seemed, were not 
yet entirely conquered. But after Simon had ceased from 
the attempt and turned away to continue his meal, the bird 
regained, little by little, its confidence in its master’s inten- 
tions. It came nearer and nearer, hopped up at last on his 
knee and allowed its coal-black shining back to be freely 
stroked, while it ate ravenously of the saint’s supper. 

“ You have been away all day, sitting angry and sullen 
over on the tree,” said Simon in a tone of friendly reproach. 


The Last Athenian. 


181 


“ I chastised you severely yesterday, to be sure, hut you are 
so stupid and hard to teach, that you make me sometimes 
provoked enough to wring your neck. Two long years at 
school, and not yet learned the name Elpinice ! ” 

Simon’s raven was almost as famous as the saint himself. 
The Christians believed it was more than a hundred years 
old, and they said, that one day, when Simon had been for- 
gotten by the pious women who lived near the double gate, 
the raven had brought him food, as did the ravens of old to 
Elias the great prophet. 

Perhaps the raven really was an old hermit, a Methuse- 
lah among its long-lived race, a survivor of its own and a 
stranger to the young raven-world, passing its years in the 
cliffs and groves by the Cephissus, solitary and sorrowing, 
till at last it found a new companion of another race,— 
a friend in many things like itself, to whom it was grad- 
ually drawn by that sympathetic band, that tender, irre- 
pressible power which gives every heart, even the loneliest, 
coldest and most blighted, an object whereon to lavish 
whatever of love it may possess. 

The confidential tete-a-tete between the pillar-man and 
his raven was suddenly interrupted, when the sharp ear of 
the former detected the sound of an approaching step upon 
the turf. He had been sitting with his face toward the 
olive-hills. He turned sharply round, lay down, and his bald 
head with its shaggy beard protruding between the leaf- 
work of the capital looked like a hideous wild beast spy- 
ing through a thicket. The raven lit on his shoulder. 

Simon was angry at being disturbed in his repast. He 
had indeed not yet sung his evening psalm, but it was 
growing late and lie wished to be alone. He therefore 
shouted to the yet distant comers, 
u Go away, go away ! Go, I say ! ” 

But when they still approached, his eyes glistened, and 
he began in a mocking tone : 


132 


The Last Athenian. 


“ Come my children* ! Come and hear ! Why shall the 
ear he fastened to the head ? Cut off the ear, stupid mor- 
tal, and nail it to your breast ” 

These words composed the introduction to one of those 
awful sermons, with which he was accustomed to frighten 
lonely wayfarers who approached the pillar at an improper 
hour. But this time Simon did not continue, for he was 
interrupted by a well know voice, calling out : 

“ Father Simon, be not enraged. It is I, Peter, who 
comes.” 

“ Ah, it is you, Peter, the bishop — the bishop ! Ah ! ” 

“ I have granted your request and brought my young 
Clemens to you.” 

“ Who is Clemens ? ” 

" You know, father.” 

“ Clemens ? No.” 

“Clemens, my young foster son, of whom I once spoke 
to you, and whom you wished to see.” 

" Ah ! now I know.” 

“ He comes to beseech thy blessing.” 

The pillar-man lay a little while in the position he had 
taken, gazing earnestly upon the bishop’s young companion, 
who had now thrown back his cowl and exposed a head 
flowing with long, light brown hair. After this Simon 
raised himself upon his knees, carried his hand as if in 
thought to his beard, looked around with a spying glance 
to all quarters of the compass, and at last seized his line, 
one end of which he made fast with a number of turns to a 
projecting leaf of the capital. 

The raven, beginning to be sleepy, was disturbed by this 
movement. It flapped its wings, raised itself up, and flew 
with heavy strokes to the nearest point of the half-fallen 
city wall, where it lit in the shadow of a myrtle, and thrust 
its head under its wing. 

In the silence which ensued, melodious tones were heard 


The Last Athenian. 


133 


from afar, and on the stream, which glistened in the moon- 
light like molten silver, a boat appeared, gliding nearer. 

The next moment the saint, clutching the line with both 
hands, shot out from the capital and slid down to the sod. 

He stood, or rather crouched beside the pillar before the 
bishop and reader, whose reverence for the saint, when he 
saw him so near, ought to have been mingled with horror. 
The sun had burned and the winds dried this being to a 
skeleton, enveloped in dark brown skin, upon which the 
veins lay like cords and moved like knotted worms, when 
the few drops of blood, which yet diffused life through this 
disgusting object, moved along them. The eyes lay deeply 
sunken in their sockets, and the rings about their pupils 
shone with a dark-red gleam. The saint sat in a half- 
kneeling position, bent together with legs under him, and 
supported himself by his long hairy arms, left naked by the 
bear-skin that covered the rest of his body. 

Peter touched reverentially his beard and his knees, 
whispering at the same time in his ear, 

“ Father, guard your tongue ! ” 

In Simon’s eye the wild glare was mingled with an 
expression of prudence and secret intelligence. He nodded 
approvingly and looked towards Clemens. 

“ Come to me ! Fear me not ! ” said he, with unmistaka- 
ble affection in his tones. 

Clemens obeyed. He advanced with the deepest venera- 
tion and bowed his head as he said : 

“ Thy blessing, good father ! ” 

The moon at that moment lighted two faces approaching 
each other, — the youth’s beautiful and transparently clear, 
the old man’s wondrously ugly and horrible — they neared 
each other as if to show more clearly the boundless dis- 
tance which can lie between individual forms of the same 
species ; for they were as different, as opposite, as the typical 
man from the fallen, who in the loss of his humanity 


134 


The Lost Athenian. 


becomes more frightful than the ugliest beast tbe animal 
kingdom can produce. Yet, who would have supposed 
it ? it was that angel-like youth’s honest, warmest, deepest 
wish to be what the other was, — that hideous, monstrous 
figure, which crouched before him and laid one hand on his 
head, while the shriveled fingers of the other, with thin long 
nails, felt over his cheek. 

For Clemens, the horrible vanished in the revelation of 
the holy, that he introduced into it. To him the old man 
was beautiful. 

Peter felt very uncomfortable while this was passing. 
He feared the pillar-man would say something he ought 
not. He therefore hastened to break off the interview, 
with these words : 

“ Pious father, I have now satisfied your wish to see my 
young dearly beloved son. And he has also received what 
he desired — your blessing. It is time to leave you in 
peace.” 

The pillar-man supported himself with one hand against 
the turf ; with the other he shielded his eyes, as if the 
moonlight blinded him. 

“ Clemens,” said the bishop, “ I wish to tell the holy 
man some things in private. Walk on in advance and 
await me at the gate of the city.” 

Accustomed to obey, the young priest bade the old saint 
a reverential farewell and departed across the plain. 

A moment passed in silence, while Simon drew his hand 
over his eyes. He removed from them a stranger, which 
for long years had not shown itself there, — a tear pressed 
out by tender feelings. Then he said as he looked around, 

“ Why did Philip go ? ” 

“ Do not speak that name, my father ! ” entreated Peter 
with evident uneasiness, though no one could hear them.” 
I dared not allow him to remain, for you are not able to 
guard your tongue.” 


The Last Athenian. 


135 


“ You are right,” said the old man laying both hands on 
his head. When I have kneeled for a long time, I feel so 
strangely iip there. It buzzes and whistles in my brain. 
But let me see him again. I will take care. His name is 
not Philip now, but Clemens ; he is no longer Elpinice’s 
son — of course not ! ” 

— “ 0,” he added to himself, “ how he resembles her ! 
Elpinice in her bridal robes with the myrtle wreath upon 
her locks ! Elpinice in her shroud of death with the celery 
wreath about her forehead ! Elpinice in her shroud — 
Elpinice ! ” 

Simon’s iron breast heaved with a deep sigh, which 
sounded like a death-rattle. He turned and rested against 
the cold pillar his hideous face, his burning brow, his cheek, 
that witnessed the new wonder of a tear. 

“ Calm yourself, father ! ” said Peter, who now first 
noticed the saint’s discomposure, “ Do you not hear ? 
People are approaching. Here comes a boat on the stream. 
Let no one see that you have left your place ! ” 

Peter’s exhortations were strengthened by the notes of a 
cithara which accompanied a lively, clear, melodious song, 
interrupted now and then by laughter and glad voices. 
The boat whence these sounds arose, approached with slow 
and regular strokes of the oar over the silver water. 

The bishop’s words were exactly fitted to recall Simon to 
his senses, for they appealed to his ascetic honor. He 
raised himself up, cast a sharp quick glance over the stream, 
seized the rope, slung it around to the shady side of the 
pillar, and climbed with the agility of an ape up to the 
capital. Once there he assumed his usual position, thrust 
his head out between the capital’s leaf work and said in a 
confidential, anxious tone, 

“They could not have seen me, Peter? ” 

“Ho, you may rest easy about that.” 

“ Peter, Philip is Christian ? ” 


136 


The Last Athenian. 


(t Certainly.” 

“ Philip is baptized ? Philip is priest ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Glorious ! Glorious ! So I would have it. Little 
lamb, that we saved from the claws of the wolf! Little 
lamb, whom we bore home to the true fold ! Peter, let me 
see again the little lamb ! Be not afraid ! I will guard my 
tongue. Let him come before sunset ; you know I do not 
speak before sunset.” 

“ I will send Clemens here every evening with a loaf and 
a flask of wine.” 

“ Peter you are a good son. A thousand blessings upon 
you, my good Peter ! But how is it ? Is it the hated one, 
who rings the bells in the city ! ” 

“ Chrysanteus. Do you mean him ? ” 
u Yes, are not he and the heathen again masters in the 
city ? ” 

“ What do you say ? The Lord forbid, that such a time 
should ever return ! ” 

" Or do you celebrate now every night the feast of the 
martyrs ? ” 

“ What has given you such a belief, my father ? ” 
u Have you not for the last two nights assembled there?” 
said Simon, stretching out his arm towards the olive hills. 
“ Have I not heard the psalms of the righteous resound, as 
if coming deep out of the earth’s bosom ? It is indeed as 
of yore, when we were persecuted for our faith, and cele- 
brated the feast of the Lord in caves and catacombs. 
Glorious time ! ” 

And the pillar-saint began to sing one of those psalms, 
at first in a low voice as if he would imitate the sounds of 
which he spoke ; then louder and louder as if he would 
drown the joyous tones from the approaching boat : 


The Last Athenian. 


137 


In Judah, God of old was known, 

His name in Israel great ; 

In Salem stood his holy throne, 

And Zion was his seat. 

From Zion went his dreadful word, 

And broke the threat’ning spear; 

The bow, the arrows, and the sword, 

And crushed the Assyrian war. 

’Twas Zion’s King that stop’d the breath 
Of captains and their bands: 

The men of might slept fast in death, 

And never found their hands. 

At thy rebuke, O Jacob’s God, 

Both horse and chariot fell ; 

Who knows the terror of thy rod • 

Thy vengeance who can tell ? 

What power can stand before his sight, 

When once his wrath appears. 

When Heav’n shines round with dreadful light, 

The earth lies still and fears.* 

Peter’s face expressed the greatest interest in the discov- 
ery he thought he had made in the saint’s words about the 
nightly service of God. But as he knew it would avail 
nothing to seek further explanations on the subject from 
Simon, and as he further knew that the latter, when he 
became deeply engaged in his darling psalms, did not wish 
to be disturbed, he determined to depart in silence, all the 
more as Clemens was awaiting him at the city gate and the 
night was far advanced. 

He walked with slow steps over the plain, on which his 
figure, wrapped in a loose cloak, cast a fantastic, giant 
shadow. A rumor went in Athens, that some one had seen 
a shadow on the. ground like a man’s, — when no human or 
other tangible object was visible, — slowly passing over the 


* Watt’s versification. 


138 


The Last Athenian. 


plain towards the Double gate, and there, raising itself 
above the earth like a figure of mist, it vanished. Perhaps 
the beholder’s fancy had fashioned this figure from nothing 
more than the shadow of a cloud sailing by the moon ; or 
perhaps the dull, uncertain, crushing fear, which like a 
heavy atmosphere hung over the populace, had given itself 
expression in this story. But any one, who at this moment 
saw the solitary wanderer striding over the deserted pillar- 
field, would have been seized with a like foreboding, and 
felt that the spirit of desolation, incarnate in this being, 
approached the slumbering city. And in truth this man 
needed but to raise his hand to call down over Athens a 
fate worse than the pestilence. 

The song, the music of the cithara ; and the joyous 
murmurs, just now heard, suddenly ceased, drowned by 
Simon’s loud and devout singing, and only the regular oar 
strokes now resounded from the stream, as the boat glided 
along upon its bright, quiet, winding path between willows 
and cypresses. The happy company, assembled within it, 
had ceased laughing and singing for a moment, to listen for 
the sake of change to the pillar-man’s song. 

The skiff’s prow was decked with roses : chains of flowers 
hung along its sides; two boys, beautiful as Hylas and 
Ganymede plied the oars ; Praxinoa, the charming courte- 
san, sat mistress at the helm ; Olympiodorus, the divine, 
but by a thankless or thoughtless world forgotten, poet, lay 
carelessly stretched at ease upon swelling cushions, with 
his head on Praxinoa’s knee, and smiling, happy and half 
inebriated, roamed away in thought among the moon, stars 
and white fleecy clouds ; Palladius, the singer, who had just 
become silent, sat beside, with one arm round his cithara 
and the other around the waist of a dark eyed Syrian 
dancing-girl of fifteen summers, listening with ironical 
ecstacy to the pillar-saint’s harsh song: Charmides, 
wrapped in his richly flowing mantle, lay in nearly the 


The Last Athenian. 


139 


same agreeable position as his friend Olympiodorus, but 
instead of choosing an equally charming pillow on Myro’s 
knee, he had, with elbow resting on the rail, bent over 
the water and was amusing himself with gazing on the 
moon’s picture far down in the depths, and dipping his 
fingers m the cooling ripples ; Myro had taken the wreath 
from his head to twine violets among its roses, casting a 
glance now and then, as the others did, towards the pillar, 
and smiled or tried to smile, with the others, at the strange, 
hard song, which yet cut between the joints and marrow, 
so serious was it; and in the emotions and thoughts it 
awakened and expressed, so at war with the sorrow-free 
surroundings, the quiet land, the mild heaven, the beautiful 
evening and its magic light. 

For Simon sang of something crushed and disconsolate, 
of a being in nature that does not partake of its harmony, 
whose bones are weary, whose limbs burn with the raging 
fires of a guilty conscience, who wails in his heart’s anguish, 
beholding his sins like storming waves beat together over 
his head. 

Simon sang of a hard and awful God, whose wrath none 
can appease, who removes the mountains, shakes the earth 
so that her pillars tremble, tells the sun not to rise, and 
seals up the stars ; who sends his angels with vials of wrath 
over the world to destroy the city of the heathen, the great 
joyous Babel, shining with silk, gold and scarlet, so that 
candle shall shine there no more, the voice of bride and 
bridegroom no more be heard within its gates. 

When this song had died away, the notes of the cithara 
again resounded from the flower- wreathed boat, accompany- 
ing the following dithyramb : 

Youths and fair maidens I 
Joyous, resplendent, 

Life’s rosy morning ; 

Airy, delicious, 


140 


The Last Athenian . 


Sweet-smiling Hours 
Hover in wanton, 
Fluttering columns 
Over its vales 
Elysian Spring. 

Fleeting oh, fleeting 
Are all these joyous 
Heavenly beings, 

Hence flying towards the 
Radiance afar. 

While you yourselves both 
Youths and fair maidens, 
While your own happy, 
Glittering band, 

Onward, by fate led 
Draws to a different 
Lowering future. 

Hasten, Oh, hasten 
Youths and fair maidens 
Maidens and youths fair 
Hasten to capture 
Th’ army angelic ; 

Hasten to throw in 
Irons of pleasure 
All these Olympic, 
Ravishing, smiling 
Children of light ! 

From your own side the 
Quivering balance 
Ever is plucking 
Moera, the cruel, 

Each of the golden 
Counters of joy ; 

Casting in th’ other 
Fast falling balance 
Languishing passions, 
Powers exhausted, 

Troubles and sorrows 
Burdening lead. 

Swift as the torch is 
Caught up and passed from 
Hand unto hand in 


The Last Athenian. 


141 


Panathenaean 
Night celebrations, 

You must relinquish 
Youth’s everlasting 
Bright blazing torch to 
Ruddier races 
Hurrying after : — 

While you yourselves, all 
Sink into age’s 
Darkening shadows 
Sink in the grave’s cold, 

Horrible night. 

Cheeks like the meadow’s 
Roses, grow pallid. 

Full-flowing tresses 
Fall as the forest’s 
Crown in November. 

Radiant glances, 

Pale as the dying 
Lamps at a banquet. 

Hasten Oh, hasten 
Youths and fair maidens 
Middens and youths fair, 

Hasten to drain the 
Cup of enjoyment. 

Clasp to your glowing, 

Passionate bosom 
Maiden, your lover 
Lover, your maid. 

Peter had returned to his palace and bidden good night 
to the young reader, who awaited him at the city gate and 
had now departed to his bed room in the peristyle. 

Peter was again alone in his study ; although he had been 
actively occupied during the whole day, he did not yet feel 
any need of sleep. He endeavored to fasten his attention 
upon the book of Tertullian, which lay open on his table, 
and his eyes fell upon the following words, those remarkable^ 
wild, powerful paradoxes in which Faith has written its 
declaration of independence against Reason. 

9 


142 


The Last Athenian. 


“ Crucifixus est Dei films ; non pudet , quia pudendum 
est.” 

“ Et mortuus est Dei filius j prorsus credibile est , quia 
ineptum est.” 

(( Et sepultus resurrexit ; cerium est, quia impossibile 
est .” 

But the united powers of the reader’s will, and the 
writer’s fiery eloquence, were not sufficient to repress the 
thoughts the bishop concealed in his soul. He left the hook 
and for a long while paced up and down the room. 

Before he finally went to his chamber, he opened the. 
cupboard standing under the book case by the side of the 
table, and took out two decanters, a little one of silver and 
a large one of glass. He poured some drops from the 
former, that contained a soporific of the most dangerous 
kind, into the latter, holding a light harmless wine, then 
placed both back in their places and locked the cupboard. 

After three or four hours sleep, he was again awake to 
his schemes. He left his bed at dawn, just as Euphemius, 
the short-necked priest, bent and enveloped in his cloak, 
with a lamp and a bunch of keys in one hand, and a clay jug 
in the other, crossed a little dark court behind the peristyle, 
and stopped before a cellar door, which, after setting the 
lamp upon a bench, he opened with the help of a great 
key. 

The old watchman of the palace, who was at once sexton 
and servant, sat, wrapped to his nose in a coarse cloak, on 
the same bench, meditating beside his hour glass and horn 
lantern. He jerked his mouth up out of the cloak, turned 
towards Euphemius and said : 

“ Brother, this has been a sorrowful night. I have heard 
bis sighs and mourning from down below, and it was hor- 
ribly hard for me not to give him water. What has he 
done i* ” 

“ He renounces the Church,” answered Euphemius, as 
he took up the lamp and went down the cellar steps. 


The Last Athenian . 


143 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE PHILOSOPHER’S HOME. 

At the foot of the eastern slope of the Acropolis the 
handsome Tripod street extended north and south. Its 
western side, commencing with the Prytanes’ palace and 
ending with Pericles’ Odeum, formed an unbroken chain of 
monumental buildings. Its eastern side consisted of private 
houses, erected in a light style and only one or two stories 
high, that they might not diminish by their size the effect 
of those opposite, which, like Grecian public buildings in 
general, were distinguished rather by their noble forms 
than by colossal dimensions. 

Of the magnificence of the Tripod street there remains 
even to this day, a round tower-like edifice encircled by 
Corinthian pilasters with ornamented entablature, sculp- 
tured frieze, — portraying the adventures of Dionysius on 
board the corsair-ship, — and vaulted roof, adorned at its 
highest point by an acanthus with luxuriant, gracefully- 
falling leaves. An inscription explains that this structure 
commemorates the triumph of the Athenian Lysicrates and 
his tribe, the Acamantian, in a tragic chorus contest. 

This tasteful memorial of a triumph in the world of 
beauty (itself another) has during later centuries stood con- 
fined within the gloomy, dirty walls of a Capuchin cloister, 
— as a smiling dream of childhood survives in a plodding, 
dark and isolated soul. The monks have used it as a whip- 
ping room and prison. Fate, like art, sports with con- 
trasts. 

Directly opposite this monument, on the other side of 
the street was the house of Chrysanteus. Only two stories 
high, it was widely extended, and inclosed, beside the aula * 

* The principal court in the centre of a Grecian house. 


144 


The Last Athenian. 


and ladies’ court, a not inconsiderable garden. Had you 
taken hold of the gilded bronze ring which ornamented the 
door, and by knocking given notice of your wflsh to enter, 
you w'ould have been quickly admitted by an affable old 
servant and ushered into a long, dark corridor, lighted day 
and night by a lamp. It was closed on the opposite end 
by another door. When this was opened, a surprisingly 
beautiful perspective presented itself, overarched by a clear 
heaven. One stood then in the open aula, whose Ionic - 
pillars of Pentelic marble drew their white airy columns 
against a back ground of clear dark red, and supported an 
open-w r ork gallery running around the upper story. The 
aula, in whose centre stood an altar with perpetually burn- 
ing incense, was surrounded on three sides by this colon- 
nade, behind which doors led to different apartments : recep- 
tion room, guest^ room, sleeping chambers, the bath &c. 
The fourth side, — that opposite the entrance — was occupied 
by two larger rooms ; the cabinet of art and the library, 
both closed *by violet-colored drapery alone, generally drawn 
back, so that one saw their wall-paintings surrounded by a 
harmonious play of clear colors, and their floors inlaid with 
squares of different marbles. These rooms were divided by 
a broad space directly opposite the entrance door, through 
which the prospect was prolonged over the ladies’ court 
lying behind the aula, and ornamented by a fountain 
springing from among flower vases. This court opened in 
turn on to the garden, where the perspective ended with a 
shady walk of spreading trees, thinned here and there to 
let the sunshine fall upon a statue or break itself in the 
shower of pearls from a babbling cascade. 

About ten o’clock* on the day after Clemens and the 
bishop visited the renowned pillar saint, it happened that 

* About the fifth hour, according to the Roman reckoning, which, 
with many other Roman customs, was at that time in vogue in 
Greece. 


The Last Athenian. 


145 


the knocker of Chrysanteus’ house rattled with unusual 
violence. The old porter peeped out through his little loop- 
hole and saw that he, who caused the clatter, was an elderly 
man in a very shabby dress. The porter in Chrysanteus’ 
house differed in many respects from his colleagues. First 
of all he was not a eunuch, but the happy father of a 
family, with a wife and many children ; next, he was 
instructed by his master to show himself equally courteous 
toward all classes of visitors ; and thirdly, he did not have 
the disposition to assume that snubbing manner, which, if 
we can believe the old comedies, was a standing character- 
istic with the porters of that day. He however entertained 
an especial predilection, together with the highest respect, 
for all who wore a beard and the philosopher’s mantle, — for 
his loved master, though he wore not the mantle, was a 
philosopher, — and this was exactly the case with the old man 
who now grasped the knocker, — he was both bearded and 
philosophically robed, though his mantle was of the coarsest 
sort. Our porter therefore hastened to open for him. 

“ Whom do you seek ? ” he asked. 

“ I seek Chrysanteus, the archon. Am I right ? ” 

“This is Chrysanteus’ house, but he is not at home.” 

“ When is he expected ! ” 

“ I cannot say with certainty. But if you have time to 
wait for him, you are welcome across his threshold.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“ I presume you are a stranger in the city, perhaps a 
far traveller ? ” 

“ That is the case.” 

“ Perchance you are an old friend of my master ? ” con- 
tinued the porter, who from good intent exposed himself to 
the charge of curiosity. 

“ FTo,” answered the stranger, “ I know him only by 
reputation.” 

“ Ah ! Who does not ? ” said the porter with a certain 


146 


The Last Athenian. 


pride. u But you are always welcome. My master is glad 
to see stranger philosophers in his house.” 

During this conversation the porter had closed the street 
door and escorted the stranger to the door opposite. This 
he opened, bade the guest enter the aula, beckoned at the 
same time to a young slave, who served as atriensis, and 
then returned to the porter’s room. 

Medes, the young slave, son of the porter, a youth with 
bright smile and lively manner, explained to the stranger 
that it would be some time before his master returned : it 
was therefore his duty to show the guest where he would 
find the bath room, if he would bathe ; the library, if he 
would read ; a retired guest’s room were he weary and pre- 
ferred a quiet apartment to the sofas in the aula. 

The stranger chose the library. He was shown thither, 
looked a moment at the beautiful paintings, shook his head 
at them, then took a papyrus roll and threw himself upon a 
comfortable sofa to read. After a few moments there 
entered a boy, Medes’ younger brother, who placed beside 
the guest a little round table with fruits, confects and two 
crystal flasks, one filled with wine, the other with water, 
fresh from the spring in the garden. The boy then went 
out, quickly returning with fragrant flowers, which he sub- 
stituted for others not yet withered in the vases under the 
drapery at the entrance of the room. Having thus cared 
for the unknown and very shabby stranger’s welfare, after 
the manner of the house, he withdrew. 

When the porter threw open the door to the new comer, 
he had not noticed that the latter as he knocked, exchanged 
a confidential glance with old Bathyllus, the olive-seller, 
who stood in the street a little way oft*, terror depicted upon 
his countenance, and that not far from Bathyllus stood two 
men, one of them a priest, — who whispered to each other 
and regarded the visitor with sharp looks. 

These two had met the stranger in front of the Prytanes’ 


The Last Athenian . 


147 


palace, and turned to follow him. Being a very sharp-eyed 
man, he had noticed that he was the object of their atten- 
tion, but without showing the least sign of uneasiness had 
continued his way till he stood before Chrysanteus’ house. 

One of the two was an imperial agent — a sort of courier 
and spy, who had arrived in the city the previous day with 
a letter for the proconsul. 

“ Bah,” said the agent to the priest, as they departed 
down the street, “you say, that you have seen him twice; 
I say, that I have seen him a hundred times. If this old 
man is Athanasius, you may cut off my nose, as a just 
punishment for being on the wrong scent. It is too ridicu- 
lous ! Every city I come to, in Europe, Asia or Africa, they 
have just seen Athanasius. One needs only to be unknown 
in a place and ha«e some wrinkles on his face to become 
immediately Athanasius, he and no one else. He is like 
the shoemaker of Jerusalem, whom the peasants see in 
every old ragamuffin that strolls through their village.” 

“ Well, well,” remarked Euphemius, “ I did not say 
that he is Athanasius, only that he resembles him. There 
is no harm, you know, in having your eyes about 3 r ou.” 

“Eyes? Yes. I never leave them at home, be sure of 
that, most reverent presbyter ! And my eyes told me that 
this old man is a sucking dove to Athanasius.” 

“But you know, there are certain means, that can 
change, — make younger the appearance. The hair for 
example can be died with lixivium, the ” 

“ Look here,” interrupted the agent and stood still. 
“ Take a good look at me ! How old do you think I am ? ” 

“ About fifty,” guessed Euphemius. 

“ My friend, I am to day in reality fifty years old. 
To morrow I shall be perhaps seventy, next day twenty. 
But in truth I was born thirty years ago. You take hay 
to Megara, if you will teach me, that there is such an art.” 

“ By the angel hosts ! you astonish me. It would be 


148 


The Last Athenian. 


worth while to learn this art. My best friend, I cannot let 
you go, till .you give me some instruction in it. As regards 
the old man, I do not doubt that you are entirely right. I 
so concluded as soon as I saw him enter the arch-heathen’s 
house. Athanasius would never present himself there even 
if he does not hesitate occasionally to hide himself under 
the philosopher’s mantle and let his heard grow. But now 
concerning this remarkable art, so ” 

“ It is entirely unnecessary for you, exclaimed the agent 
laughing, “ for if you will only not forget to take your 
neck along with you, wlien you go out, you will be suffi- 
ciently unrecognizable. Ha, ha, ha ! Pardon me ! I did 
not wish to wound you. When one is witty by nature, 
such sallies fall of themselves.” 

Let us leave the priest and the secret Athanasian, and 
return to the philosopher’s house. This time we will not 
stop in the aula, where we left the mysterious guest, hut 
continue our way to the ladies’ court. 

This was surrounded, like the aula, with Ionic pillars, 
supporting a balcony ornamented with statues, to which 
access was gained from the upper story. Excepting a cer- 
tain space left open as a passage way, the balcony was filled 
with choice flowers and overspread with a fine net, not 
discernible from the court — within which fluttered birds of 
song and others on whose feathers, gleaming with a metallic 
lustre, Nature had lavished her brightest hues. The ground, 
or rather the floor, for during the greater part of the year 
these courts were dwelling rooms with the heavens for roof, 
— was chequered with a pavement of black and yellow- 
white stones, save in the middle, where was spread a carpet 
of grass, above which the fountain cast its spray into a 
marble basin. Near by is Chrysanteus’ daughter, Hermi- 
one, with some lady friends. 

The evening is lovely. The heavens arch clear and 
cloudless above this fair spot removed from the city’s bustle, 


The Last Athenian. 


149 


where the fragrance of flowers ,and the song of birds mingle 
with the purl of falling water. The sun still shines upon 
the eastern colonnade and gilds the highest leap of the foun- 
tain ; the warmth is such, that the freshness by the water 
jet pleases, yet one does not desire the full shadow offered 
by the western colonnade. A table with the light trifles 
in which Grecian cookery was so fertile, and a few long, 
divan-like sofas, covered with a dark green, velvety cloth, 
embroidered with silver, are placed between the flower 
vases near the basin. Here the young women are reposing 
in joyous and confidential converse, while Hermione’s 
waiting maid, Alcmene, glides Hebe-like between the 
flowers, and waters them from an urn which every now and 
then she fills at the fountain. 

The clear sky, the graceful pillared building, the statues 
and vases, the playing jet, and within these surroundings 
the pretty group of young women, clad in the simplest, 
chastest and noblest dress that ever fluttered about 
womanly grace, composed a picture of clear lines, calm 
beauty and ideal poetry, peculiar to the antique. 

The old Hellenic costume had been again assumed by 
many Athenians, to whom the memory of the past was 
dearer than ever, as is usual in times when an uncontrolled, 
irreconcilable contest exists between different world-opinions 
and calls forth the most extreme opposites side by side. 
Hermione was clad in a snow-white tunic of Egyptian 
sindon , fastened with a brooch over the left shoulder, and 
having a long cape, so cut open over the arms that it fell 
from the neck like two separate draperies, the one over the 
back, the other over the bosom, and almost concealed the 
blue gold-stitched belt which drew the tunic about the 
waist, whence it fell in rich, natural folds to the sandal- 
decked feet. The sleeves of this dress were very wide, slit 
open from shoulder to wrist, and held together at intervals 
by little gold buckles, so that now one saw only a strip, 


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now the whole rounding of the lovely arms where played 
the rose and lily. To increase the comfort of this habit, 
the tunic was also cut open from under the left arm to the 
waist, but here fastened with a close row of brooches. A 
narrow purple border ran around the bottom of the dress, 
and increased the effect of the plastic fall of the folds. 

Hermione’s rich dark hair was not parted, but naturally 
arranged as on a boy’s curly head, and held together by a 
simple band like a diadem. Under this in the middle of 
her forehead the hair divided itself into two long wavy 
lines, which approached the fine penciled eyebrows and 
ended behind them in little curly tresses, while the back 
hair fell in a swell of long lustrous waves over neck and 
shoulders. 

Two of the other ladies were clad in nearly the same 
manner as Hermione, but wore over the white tunic another, 
shorter; in the one case saffron color, in the other ame- 
thyst. 

The third was a pretty brunette in a Homan habit ; the 
young Julia, wife of Chrysanteus’ friend, Ammianus Mar- 
cellinus, tribune of the Jovian guard, who has rendered his 
name immortal by an excellent history of his time. 

Julia was born in the capital of Gaul, — Paris, whose name 
had not at that time such a world-historic ring as now. 
She had visited it, ever since Julian had removed thither 
his humble court. She could tell, and did it willingly, of 
the chilling terror which the irruption of the Alemannic 
barbarians had awakened in Gaul, of the universal jubilee 
when the province was saved by the valor of Julian, of 
the thrift, comfort and prosperity which, under his just, firm 
and clement rule blessed the land, before suffering and im- 
poverished. In a word, the wife of Ammianus Marcellinus 
admired J ulian ; and this admiration was the first bond of 
a friendship between her and Hermione, which grew deeper 
the more they learned to know each other and which was 


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outwardly strengthened by a common reverence for the 
old religion, and common love for wisdom and beauty. 

Ismene and Berenice were native Athenians, friends of 
Hermione from childhood, and like her still free from 
Hymen’s bond, — Berenice, a dark-haired girl, with earnest 
mien and calm dignity ; Ismene, a blonde of sixteen sum- 
mers, smiling and willful as a child, whose face was the 
clearest mirror of a joyous, sensitive, capricious disposition, 
and whose manner and gestures combined vivacity with 
much grace and innocent coquetry. 

“What do you think of the little song, my Julia; 
asked Ismene, laying aside her lyre and lifting her little 
feet upon the swelling sofa, against whose green ground 
the pearly sandals glittered, “ Have you heard it before ? ” 

“Ho,” answered Julia; “its melody is simple but touch- 
ingly beautiful. I judge therefore that it is very old.” 

“ You judge rightly,” said Hermione, “it is a shoot from 
the vine of Simonides.” 

“ And if I had sung it in my great, great grandmother’s 
time,” added Ismene, “ I should have been laughed at for 
liking such an old-fashioned song. Mind you, in my great, 
great grandmother’s time, then the world had taste ! Then 
the dames bore a hair dress high as the Tower of the 
Winds, and the men mouches, which made them perfectly 
irresistible.” 

“ Fie, Alcmene ! See you not that a butterfly is sitting 
in that flower ? Think you that a flower thirsts, so long as 
it is kissed by such a pretty little cavalier? Wait till he 
flies away ! He will fly soon, for butterflies are fickle and 
faithless, Alcmene, but to drown them for that would be 
altogether too hard a punishment. It is their nature to be 
faithless — do you not understand, simple girl ? ” 

“ Julia,” said Hermione, “now it is your turn to read the 
new piece you have translated into our language from your 
Roman Ovid. The song of Pyramus and Thisbe was so 
pretty, that we long to hear more from the same poet.” 


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“ And your verses are as faultless and easy, as if Hel- 
lenic was your mother tongue/’ exclaimed Berenice. 

“ I wish only to convince you/’ said Julia, “ that we 
Bomans have not gone to school to you Hellens entirely 
without profit. We succeed admirably in imitating you now 
and then. “Look,” continued Julia, giving Hermione an 
elegant little manuscript, “here is my attempt. This time 
the song is about the poor Narcissus. You shall read it, 
Hermione; I do not dare, myself, for when I last read the 
song of Pyramus and Thisbe, it happened that Ismene, just 
when tears were filling her eyes at the unhappy lover’s fate, 
bursts out laughing when I pronounced one of your hard 
Hellenic words with a Roman accent.” 

“ Ah, my good Julia, pardon me, but it sounded so 
funny,” said Ismene, and involuntarily began laughing 
again at the mere recollection. The contrast had been so 
ridiculous between the moving poem and Julia’s earnest 
declamation on one hand, and the incorrectly pronounced 
word on the other. 

“The self-loving Narcissus,” continued Ismene. This 
time I shall neither laugh nor cry. Neither you nor Ovid, 
my dear Julia, can with all your art call forth from me a 
single tear over a fool, who loved himself. 

“ Do not say so,” said Berenice, “ it was a delusion, 
with which Cupid punished him for his hardness towards 
the poor Echo. But who can love against his own heart ? 
All unfortunates deserve pity, whether they themselves are 
the cause of their fate or not. Yes, I believe the former 
are the unhappier and therefore deserve the greater 
sympathy.” 

“ You are right, my good Berenice, — but to weep over 
Narcissus, that I will never do,” said Ismene, playing with 
her fan. 

“Perhaps,” said Julia, “there also lies in this myth a 
deeper meaning than the simple portrayal of self love. Do 
not condemn Narcissus too hastily, Ismene ! ” 


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153 


tc Maybe he will find in Hermione an eloquent defender,” 
remarked Berenice. “ I am very curious to hear your 
explanation of this fable, Hermione. When you interpret 
our legends, they become for me not only beautiful but 
holy.” 

“ Ah, my interpretations are only attempts,” answered 
Hermione, “ which are called forth by my conviction that 
these legends are but the robes around higher truths, in the 
same way as the statues of our gods portray to our senses 
the unseen god and his powers. The myth of Cupid and 
Psyche is not a common love story. It is impossible for 
me to read this or others, without perceiving truths symbol- 
ically expressed. They shine through them, as the pearl 
glitters from the bottom of a spring, as the soul pervades 
the body.” 

“But,” said Ismene, “is it not the poets who wrote 
these pretty things for themselves and others ? ” 

“This is what the Christians say,” remarked Julia. 

“ The Christians ! ” exclaimed Ismene, again playing 
with her fan. 

“They say this,” continued Julia, because they believe 
that they alone have been blessed with divine revelation. 
But my Ammianus, who has studied their writings, tells 
me, that they themselves do not hesitate to use the same 
symbolical mode of interpretation as we, when they wish 
to bring the old Jewish songs they have appropriated, into 
agreement with their doctrine. They see symbols having 
reference to them in the Hebrews’ exodus from Egypt, in a 
copper serpent the Hebrews raised on a cross in the desert, 
in the dew drops that fell upon a sheep skin some Hebrew 
warrior had spread out on the ground for some purpose or 
other ; yes, even in a song a J ewish king wrote to one of 
his wives. But the difference is this ; the Christians’ man- 
ner of interpretation is much more arbitrary than our 
philosophers’ and Hermione’s ; and the J ewish tales do not 


154 


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contain the least symbolical meaning, as ours, but are 
simply historical accounts.” 

“ But even the Christians’ manner of interpretation can 
he justified,” said Hermione, “for I conceive, that the 
divine truths symbolize themselves in historical events, the 
same as in the poets’ inspiration. You asked just now, 
Ismene, if it were not the poets who wrote our myths, to 
amuse themselves and others — ” 

u Yes, I did, and now will you explain this to me, Her- 
mione ? ” 

“I believe that many of our poets have had a higher 
object than to amuse, that they composed in the Pythian 
frenzy, that the myths are older than they, and that they 
have only given them clearer lines and brighter colors. 
But even when the poet whites only to please, only with 
reference to the Beautiful, not to the True, this does not 
exclude the possibility, that the truth, unconsciously to him, 
enters into and takes up its abode in the forms he has 
shaped, as the spark of life entered into the statue of 
Pygmalion. The poet bears the same relation to his work, 
as the mother to her child. The mother is the author of 
the child’s being, but it is not she who forms the laws of 
thought for its soul ; she is unconscious of the babe’s dispo- 
sition, knows not the manner of spirit that lives in it. 
Yes, I believe it is impossible to form anything beautiful, 
unless there unconditionally conceals itself within it, some- 
thing true, of which the beautiful is the reflection. The 
true artist’s hand is guided not by himself but by a higher 
power, and what seems to he a caprice of his fancy, is a 
law in the divine nature. I was reminded of this yes- 
terday by an account of my father’s friend, the mathemati- 
cian Diophantus — ” 

“ Diophantus, that strange, distraught old man ? ” inter- 
rupted Ismene. 

“ Yes, he.” 


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155 


“ He must be a regular wizard,” said Ismene, “ they say 
he reckons up how the sun, moon and stars should go, and 
that the very smallest little star cannot hide and revolve 
in any other way than that bald-pated gray-beard has 
prescribed for it. He must be a real tyrant for the stars.” 

“ What did Diophantus recount ? asked Julia and 
Berenice. 

“ He related, that he had measured the spiral lines of 
the volutes upon the capitals of the temple at Ilissus. 
These volutes were cut by their artist off hand, without any 
other pattern than his own imagination had shaped. Well, 
these resemble to perfection the most beautiful of all sea- 
snails, now found on coasts far away from ours. The same 
convolution of the curving lines, the same distance between 
them. Diophantus, who uses his science upon the wonders 
of both the heavens and the deep, narrated that all snail 
shells are fashioned according to two different mathematical 
laws, 011$^ of which forms figures more beautiful for the 
human eye than the other. He said much more on the 
same subject, which increases its wonder, but which I did 
not entirely understand, it was so mathematical. But 
now,” added Hermione, it is time to take up Julia’s trans- 
lation. 

While Hermione read, in an unaffected and attractive 
manner the myth of Narcissus from Ovid’s metamorphoses, 
the stranger, who had already passed some time in the 
library awaiting Chrysanteus’ return, entered the ladies’ 
court and approached the young women, enticed as it 
seemed by the magnificent flowers which stood near the 
fountain, for he stopped before them, seeming to enjoy their 
fragrance and color. 

The beginning of the myth, which Julia had translated 
and Hermione now read, relates that Narcissus was the son 
of the river god Cephisus and a dark-haired nymph Liriope, 
and that the soothsayer Tiresias, when cousulted as to his 


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future, had predicted that he should reach old age only in 
case he never learned to know himself. Narcissus grew up 
into such a comely youth, that all who saw him were enrap- 
tured with his beauty, but he loved only the hunt and 
roamed every day in the Ionic woods in track of the 
branching-antlered harts. Among others, who burned for 
this disdainful hunter, was the nymph Echo. Secretly she 
glided after him, wherever he went among cliffs and woods, 
and more and more burned her flame, as the sulphur of the 
torch 

Seizes with irrepressible love the bright flaring fire ; 
but alas, she never succeeded in telling him what she felt, 
for an angry god had condemned her to repeat only the 
last words of what others said. In vain, she used every 
opportunity this paltry ability offered her. If Narcissus 
cried to his comrade come ! she repeated with longing voice 
the same Come ! — but to him. It was in vain. Meeting 
only disdain, she crept at last into a grotto among the hills, 
covered herself with the leaves of trees, and pined away, 
consumed by her love, so that only her voice, such as it was, 
remained. Since then, she is seen no more, though heard 
by all. But revenge awaited Narcissus. He was only 
sixteen years old when an event happened, which confirmed 
the prediction of Tiresias. On this hear Ovid ! 

“ There stands a fountain in a darksome wood, 

Nor stained with falling leaves nor rising mud; 

Untroubled by the breath of winds it rests, 

Unsullied by the touch of men or beasts ; 

High bowers of shady trees above it grow, 

And rising grass and cheerful greens below. 

Pleased with the form and coolness of the place, 

And overheated by the morning chase, 

Narcissus on the grassy verdure lies: 

But, whilst within the crystal fount he tries 
To quench his heat, he feels new heats arise. 

For as his own bright image he surveyed, 


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157 


He fell in love with the fantastic shade; 

And o’er the fair resemblance hung unmoved, 

Nor knew, fond youth! it was himself he lov’d. * 

•Narcissus was bewitched with his own image. Neither 
hunger nor sleep could tear him from the spot. He com- 
plains to the woods — 

“ You trees.” says he, “ and thou surrounding grove, 
Who oft have been the kindly scenes of love, 

Tell me if e’er within your shades did lie 
A youth so tortured, so perplexed as I ? 

I, who before me see the charming fair, 

Whilst there he stands, and yet he stands not there: 

In such a maze of love my thoughts are lost; 

And yet no bulwark’d town, nor distant coast, 

Prevents the beauteous youth from being seen, 

No mountains rise, nor oceans flow between. 

A shallow water hinders my embrace; 

And yet the lovely mimic wears a face 
That kindly smiles, and when I bend to join 
My lips to his. lie fondly bends to mine. 

******** 

Whene’er I stoop he offers at a kiss 

And when my arms I stretch he stretches his. 

His eye with pleasure on my face he keeps, 

He smiles my smiles, and when I weep he weeps. 

Whene’er I speak, his moving lips appear 
To utter something, wdiich I cannot hear. 

Ah wretched me! I now begin too late 
To find out all the long-perplexed deceit: 

It is myself I love, myself I see; 

The gay delusion is a part of me. 

I kindle up the fires by which I burn, 

And my own beauties from the well return. 

Whom should I court? liow utter my complaint! 
Enjoyment but produces my restraint, 

And too much plenty makes me die of want. 

* ****** * • 


10 


©Addison’s Translation. 


158 


The Last Athenian. 


And now I faint with grief; my fate draws nigh* 

In all the pride of blooming youth I die. 

Death will the sorrows of my heart relieve : 

Oh might the visionary youth survive, 

I should with joy my latest breath resign ! 

But oh ! I see his fate involved in mine.” 

The tears the unhappy one sheds, deface the water, and 
the image appears wrinkled. He 

“ Then rends his garments off, and beats his breast : 

His naked bosom redden’d with the blow, 

In such a blush as purple clusters show, 

Ere yet the sun’s autumnal heats refine 
Their sprightly juice, and mellow it to wine. 

The glowing beauty of his breast he spies, 

And with a new redoubled passion dies. 

As wax dissolves, as ice begins to run, 

And trickle into drops before the sun; 

So melts the youth and languishes away, 

His beauty withers, and his limbs decay; 

And none of those attractive charms remain, 

To which the slighted Echo sued in vain.” 

But Echo, the rejected, yet weeps for him. She repeats 
mournfully the farewells he bids the image in the fountain. 

“ Then on the unwholesome earth he gasping lies, 

Till death shuts up those self-admiring eyes. 

To the cold shades his flitting ghost retires, 

And in the Stygian wave itself admires. 

For him the Naiads and the Dryads mourn, 

Whom the sad Echo answers in her turn, 

And now the sister-nymphs prepare his urn: 

When, looking for his corpse, they only found 
A rising stalk, with yellow blossoms crowned.” 

The descendants of this flower are called to this day 
Narcissus, in memory of the youth whose death gave them 
being. 

J ulia first broke the silence : 

“Well, Ismene, it is your turn first to express the 
thoughts this story has awakened within you.” 


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159 


" My thoughts ? ” replied Ismene, shaking her curls with 
a very profound expression. " Yes, do you know, I have 
had many, very admirable thoughts about this very same 
poor Narcissus. First of all I am really sorry I called him 
a fool, for a fool does not die of love — even for himself. In 
the next place I am sorry for Echo’s mournful fate. She 
answered the complaints of the dying one, who had rejected 
her : she answered them certainly in a sadder tone than 
she received them. She felt no rancor, no bitterness, only 
love, love to the last moment, — the good, unhappy Echo. 
But, thirdly, this ought to teach a girl not to waste her 
affections upon a cold and indifferent object, hut save them 
for some one more appreciative, who will feel it his duty to 

strive to win her love with sighs and obedience Echo, is 

it not true ? ” cried Ismene towards the aula. 

“ True ! ” responded the echo from the aula’s colonnade. 
Ismene clapped her hands with delight, and then continued. 

16 In the fourth place all this unhappiness arose from the 
fact, that Narcissus lived in a deplorable age, which pos- 
sessed no other mirrors than the fountains. If Narcissus 
had seen himself every day from the time he first began to 
toddle, as I have done, he would have gradually accustomed 
himself to the agreeable and amiable and become a sensible 
young man. I cannot deny that I like very much to look 
at m} r self,” added Ismene, taking a comfortable position on 
the divan, with both arms above her head, and gazing at 
the playing fountain. 

“ Ismene,” said Berenice, “ has had no less than four 
thoughts in respect to Julia’s verses ” 

“ Yes,” interrupted Ismene, “ was not that ever so 
many ? ” 

“ An uncommon quantity,” answered Berenice laughing. 
“ I am especially bound to acknowledge this, since I have 
not had one clear enough for expression. Ah, I must be 
very thoughtless and narrow, for when I hear a tale, like 


160 


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this, I live only upon the surface of it, fasten myself only 
upon the characters, their exploits and sufferings, and live 
so much in the play of colors, the actions and the forms, 
that I cannot perceive the moral in its clearness, though I 
know that such exists j that it is this, which from within 
gives life to the characters, spreads blush or pallor over 
their cheeks, shapes around them the nature in which they 
appear, and leads them necessarily after its laws. But you 
are able to do what I cannot, Hermione. Your explana- 
tions of our myths have been to me delightful draughts, 
loved friend, in which I have quaffed deeper reverence for 
the religion of our fathers.” 

The blush of modesty mantled Hermione’s brow. She 
answered : 

“ My interpretations are often perhaps erroneous ; it is 
only the presage of that higher and spiritual presence in 
tangible forms, of which I have no doubt. If I sometimes 
hit upon a truth, it is like the hull lying nearest under 
the shell, from which it is yet far to the kernel. Oh, you 
should hear my father’s lectures in the Academia,” contin- 
ued Hermione with flashing eyes and expanding brow', 
u You should hear him ! What is woman in the world of 
thought, to man ! It is possible for her to find with a sudden 
intuition a truth which he can reach only by severe toil 
and deep reasoning ; but by these labors, and these alone 
is acquired a domain for knowledge, a proved truth, instead 
of a true fancy. My thoughts are fancies, nothing more. 
I am rich in fancies, and your verses, Julia, have called 
forth a new one. 

“ Narcissus, so I explain the myth, is the human soul. A 
river god was Narcissus’ father, and a fountain-nymph his 
mother. Flood and fountain belong to earth, but mirror 
heaven. So the human soul is born and nursed in Nature’s 
bosom, but is also a reflection of the Divine. The sooth- 
sayer Tiresias prophesied Narcissus a long and peaceful 


The Last Athenian. 


161 


life only in case he never learned to know himself. So also, 
according to one of the holy traditions of the Hebrews, 
God proclaimed to the newly shaped race of men, that they 
should lose their paradise, if they tasted the fruit of knowl- 
edge and learned to know good from evil. The human soul, 
so intimates the myth, so teaches philosophy, lived in the 
beginning the innocent life of instinct ; man was exactly 
like plant and animal, happy as they, surrounded as they 
with the motherly care of nature, who in an increasing 
circle bid him to pleasure when he felt the need of this, 
then to sleep when he had enjoyed himself, and to action 
when he was rested. The myth alludes to this, when it 
says that Narcissus grew up beautiful and loved by all the 
divinities of nature. This was a state of blessedness, the 
blessedness of the plant. But man was created for some- 
thing else than this. He bore within himself a power 
which would sometime make him of age, and remove him 
from nature’s life of innocence, — the peaceful elysium of the 
lower perfection — from the calm of ignorance and thraldom, 
to a higher state, full of imperfection, toil and sorrow, in 
order that in strife with the world and himself he, as a free 
and intelligent being, should make his way back to the state 
of innocence, which he left as a dependent thing of nature , 
a highly gifted animal. He is destined to obey the moral 
law, as before he obeyed instinct. He is hunted from the 
elysium of natural innocence , in order that over thorny 
fields, with bleeding feet, he may reach Heaven, the 
elysium of moral innocence. The myth alludes to this 
growing, restless power of freedom in the natural man, 
when it says that Narcissus became a hunter and roved the 
woods, cold to nature’s divinities, who loved him. The 
myth mentions first the n3 T mph Echo, because nature in 
relation to the human soul is dependent ; it repeats as it 
were our last words, because it is colored by our humor : 
seems bright, when we ourselves are happy; sombre when our 


162 


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own mind is darkened, terrible in its thunder, its storms, its 
gloomy surroundings, when we fear it ; sublime in the same 
manifestations, when we admire it ; uncertain and mysteri- 
ous, when we have not learned to understand it ; regular 
and comprehensible, when we teach ourselves its laws. 
Narcissus’ thirst, — that is the human soul’s longing after 
knowledge and light. Narcissus bent over the fountain, — 
that is man, the world of idea suddenly revealed to him. 
The fountain, which no flocks, no herds, no falling bough 
disturbed, is wisdom. The image is ideal perfection, in its 
divine, imperishable beauty, revealed to the gaze of the 
dying one. It bears his own features, for the divine cannot 
be presented to our senses otherwise than as human — 
because the divine dwells in the human, is indeed the inner 
man, which through strife and struggle shall be developed. 
The soul sees itself, gazes and is seized with eternal pain 
and eternal joy, for it discovers how high is its destiny, 
how perfect it might be and ought to be. Ideal perfection 
is so near, yet so unattainable ; one meets the cold billows 
of reality, when he seeks to embrace and kiss it. He finds 
it not, until the heavenly longing has consumed every- 
thing earthly in his being. Then he possesses it — with 
God. He is gone — to Him — and the dryads who meet to 
weep over the dead, find him not, but a flower, — emblem 
of his innocence regained.” 

Hermione’s voice was flexible and melodious, the impres- 
sion it produced was heightened by the perfect harmony of 
quiet and warmth, so rare, but so delightful. The storming 
multitude of thoughts ; fancy’s increasing power, the 
heart’s quickened throbbings had not hastened the flow of 
words ; — they issued forth, like a golden chain, link by link, 
before the listening friends. The philosopher’s daughter 
was transported at that moment ; earnestness rested on her 
brow, the soul’s transport lit a higher, more spiritual gleam 
in her thoughtful eyes, and shed a purple, like the sun-set’s 


The Last Athenian. 


163 


glow on an ice-field, over the rounded, but pale cheeks ; her 
mouth smiled, her gestures were calm as her words, the 
noblest modesty mingled with the unconscious worth and 
dignity in her majestic figure, of which the antique robe 
she wore, was a chaste, harmonious echo. 

When she ceased, all was silent in the court. Alcmene 
had departed, the birds had ceased to sing, only the foun- 
tain purled as before. But the silence was broken by an 
unknown voice. The stranger in the coarse philosopher’s 
mantle stood before the young women. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE PHILOSOPHER’S HOME. 

( Continued .) 

They saw his aged, furrowed face, and heard him say: 

“ Pardon my boldness, young women, and you Hermione, 
by whose words I recognize the philosopher’s daughter. I 
am a stranger ; I have been awaiting your father in the 
aula, but was so attracted by the coolness of the fountain 
and the beautiful flowers, that I have dared to intrude 
here — ” 

“ You are welcome, philosopher,” said Hermione, grace- 
fully and heartily. 

“My boldness was increased,” the old man continued, 
“ when I saw that here the jealous gate was removed, which, 
not long ago, everywhere separated the women’s court from 
the men’s. The intercourse between the strong and the 
fair ought to be freer, heartier, more nearly equal, as far as 
I can judge from my own experience, — and encouraged by 
this I now venture the bolder step of telling you that I 


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have listened to your conversation, and would gladly join in 
it.” 

“ You will only meet our wishes. Athens’ women still 
reverence the philosopher’s mantle. Take a place in our 
circle ! ” 

“ Old men are garrulous. Have patience with them. It 
comes with age,” continued the stranger, jesting. “But 
now, without a long preface, to the subject. I will speak of 
Narcissus, — even I. Hermione’s interpretation of the 
myth about him has astonished me. I have read the fable 
a hundred times without the slightest idea of such a mean- 
ing. But this same interpretation has now inspired me 
with one similar; which, to tell the truth, astonishes me 
still more. Tell me, Hermione, was not the river god 
Cephisus the poor youth’s father ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ The river, which springs from his urn — I mean Cephi- 
sus itself — where does it flow ? ” 

“ Here by Athens — ” 

“My father has a villa near Cephisus,” exclaimed 
Ismene. “ You are welcome out there, my philosopher.” 

“ Thank you. But to continue. You admit then, Her- 
mione, that Narcissus can, in a certain sense, be called an 
Athenian ? ” 

“ I admit it willingly.” 

“When the myth gives his birth-place with such cer- 
tainty, there may perhaps lie in this an intimation that we 
should not regard him as the symbol of anything too widely 
extended and universal. It is at least worth while to 
endeavor to give him a narrower import. You, Hermione, 
consider him, as man in general, the representative of 
our race ; I, however, consider him simply an Athenian. 
The first was perhaps too much ; the last is certainly too 
little. Let us take a middle course and consider him 
Greece! We have authority for this, since Athens has 
always been the heart of Greece.” 


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165 


u Accepted ! ” said Hermione, smiling and very curious. 
“ Narcissus represents Greece ! ” 

“Good. Greece, like Narcissus, is Nature’s beloved 
child—” 

“ At least it was so once — ” 

“ Exactly ! Let us proceed now, since we agree perfectly. 
Narcissus is the Grecian spirit, the Grecian view of life and 
the world.” 

“ Echo is, as you yourself explained, Nature, and had 
fhllen into ill-favor with a divine power, and been deprived 
of the full capacity of speech. This means that nature is 
fallen, corrupted, robbed of its primitive, Elysian beauty — 
for beauty is nature’s tongue, with which she speaks to the 
eye of man. Echo’s lover does not allow her to bind him 
with any chains ; is callous towards her, cares not for her 
sighs, tears or wrath. So the Grecian spirit raised itself 
with victorious power from the thraldom in which nature 
held the rest of mankind imprisoned, — those Phoenicians, 
who offered their children to the angry powers of nature, 
those Egyptians, who worshipped crocodiles, cats, oxen and 
dogs, those Persians, who still kneel to fire. Have you yet 
nothing to observe against my interpretation, Hermione, 
you nor any of your friends ? ” 

“Proceed,” bade Hermione, “ We will afterwards make 
our observations.” 

“ Well, Narcissus was sixteen j^ears old when he melted 
away at the fountain. Does not the myth say so, young 
poetess,” asked the old man of Ammianus Marcellinus 
spouse. 

Julia assented. 

“ Suppose, that these sixteen years mean sixteen centu- 
ries, and let us see how this agrees ! — Yes, indeed, it agrees 
wonderfully well, for about so long is it since the Trojan 
war. The period of the Trojan war can with reason be 
called that in which Greece was born, the Greeks gathered 


166 


The Last Athenian. 


themselves together into a people, and the Grecian spirit 
assumed its peculiar stamp. Is it not so ? ” 

“ Your inferences are very acute,” said Hermione ; 
regarding the old man with increased attention. 

“ The blind and yet far-seeing Tiresias,” continued the 
stranger in the philosopher’s mantle, “ had predicted that 
Narcissus would become unhappy and die, if he learned to 
know himself. Do you remember, young woman, what 
stood, and perhaps still stands, written over the entrance to 
the temple of the Delphic Apollo ? It was KNOW 
THYSELF!” 

“ The inscription is still there,” said Hermione. 

“And that inscription,” exclaimed the old man, “was 
thus THE DEATH DOOM OF GREECE ! ” 

“ The conclusion from your premises is correct,” said 
Hermione, as a slight shudder ran through her. 

Julia, Berenice, even Ismene did not escape the impres- 
sion of the stranger’s last words. They looked at him 
with amazement, and Berenice said hesitatingly : 

“ I pray you explain your assertion, for I do not under- 
stand it.” 

“ According to my ability I will comply with your request. 
The Greeks in their palmy days were a nation of happy, 
loving children, who, without being disturbed by any doubt, 
gave themselves up to that imaginative belief which lent 
life and personality to every thing in nature ; — for them 
the mountains were rigid Titans, the ocean waves blue- 
veiled maids, the dark woods the abode of Pan and flute- 
blowing satyrs ; every fountain had its naiad, every tree its 
dryad, every grotto was a nymph’s dwelling-place ; the 
flower on the turf, the bird in the wood, the star in Heaven 
had its story, which they whispering told, and their fate 
was a human fate, with which the heart must sympathize. 
But while these happy, joyous children, — children who con- 
quered at Marathon and Salamis, — played in their beautiful 


The Last Athenian. 


167 


world and thought it eternal, an unknown hand had long 
since written its doom in the Delphic words i Know thy- 
self ! ’ as on the forehead of the new born babe stands in 
unseen letters the law : thou shalt die ! This glad play 
had lasted long, when suddenly was heard in the streets of 
Athens a voice repeating this, ‘ Know thyself! ’ The 
Delphic bidding had taken on manhood and was called 
Socrates. Philosophy — not that of the playful child, spec- 
ulating whether the world arose from fire or fog — but 
a philosophy wholly manly and serious, cried to the listen- 
ing children. 1 Be not deceived by thy imagination ! 
Learn to know thyself! Test the laws of thy thought. 
Thou thyself art the measure of the world. Only that, 
which agrees with these laws, — only the reasonable is 
real ! ’ Where were they now, the naiads, who held their 
urns over the valley ; the dryads, who strewed it with flow- 
ers ? They vanished, and the flowers and stars grew silent, 
the mountain became a mountain, the Ocean’s waves 
troubled water, nothing more. And further; what had 
been worshipped as right was found to be wrong ; custom’s 
holy band became foolishness, a rusty, intolerable chain ; 
the diamond writing of the outward law was blotted out, 
for the individual had found the law in himself, and very 
Olympus tumbled down, burying in its ruins the useless 
gods — useless, because reason had found them ridiculous, 
profane, unreal. All was gone, save man and the fountain 
of philosophy, in which he mirrored himself. Like Nar- 
cissus, Greece bent over the fountain, regarding her human- 
ity, — but happy? No! Unhappy, weeping, in despair! 
She tarries there yet, striking her breast, embracing the 
cold waves, looking down , down , ever down , while around 
her blossoms another nature, above her opens another, 
eternal, glorious Olympus, and she hears not the voice from 
Heaven, exhorting her ; c Look up, up ! From the image 
to the real ! You love the beautiful, perfect man. Well, 


168 


The Last Athenian. 


here am I — I myself, not my image ! You significantly 
chiseled your gods to the likeness of man. I have done 
more ; I, the Eternal, have descended to the earth in 
human form. What you presaged and longed tor is now 
fulfilled. Come to my bosom ! I am the true God and the 
true man. I am the Creator of the world, the Everlasting, 
the Inscrutable, and behold — I am also thy brother, thy 
loving brother ; in my eternal bosom I have borne a mortal 
sorrowing heart, which measured with its throbs the strokes 
of time — and this to make thee trust in thy God, at home 
in His bosom, as the child in its father’s. Come, my loved 
and first born! Fear not! Thy sins are washed out in 
my blood. I am not a terrible Fate. I am thy Father, 
Brother, and Savior ! ” 

The unknown philosopher had stood up while speaking 
these words with a fiery transport ; his figure, at other 
times bowed with years, grew erect, and his voice, uncon- 
sciously to himself, became strong and resonant, as if he 
hack been accustomed to address thousands. 

“But no,” he continued in a sorrowful tone, “Narcissus is 
deaf to the heavenly voice ; he is enchanted by a deceitful 
image, he is captivated by a lie. Woe to the hard heart, 
who will not listen to a supplicating God ! Soon his last., 
hour is come and his doom sealed. The fable says that, 
carried to realms beneath the earth he still mirrors himself 
in the Stygian wave. The fable tells the truth. His pun- 
ishment is eternal anguish, eternal fires of hell ! Woe, woe 
to the unhappy, one ! ” 

The unknown man had scarcely uttered this terrible 
warning when, wrapping his mantle around him, he left 
the amazed women, passed through the aula and departed 
from the house of Chrysanteus. At the same moment that 
he went through the passage connecting the aula with the 
ladies’ court, two men clad in glittering uniform entered 
the latter, and, approaching the group at the fountain, 


The Last Athenian. 169 

added themselves to it and gave a new turn to the stifled 
conversation. 

One of these visitors was Julia’s husband, Ammianus 
Marcellinus, tribune of the guard ; the other was proconsul 
of Achaia, Annaeus Domitius. 

* * * # # * * # # 

At dusk, the circle gathered around Hermione dissolved 
itself. Hermione was now alone in her little cabinet. She 
was awaiting her father’s return. Hour after hour flew by. 
The stars of Heaven, as they stole along, looked down 
through the curtained door of the balcony upon the girl 
lost in sorrowful reverie. There is a state of feeling which 
leaves no room for distinct thoughts, but in which the soul 
feels itself the more complete, because this state is caused 
by its collected impressions. In this Hermione was long 
sunk. The human soul is a never-resting artist ; hours like 
these are its music, — when it produces clear forms, it plies 
the chisel or pencil. Out of Hermione’s undefined dreams 
there arose at last the recollection of an event which had 
left upon her the deepest impression of anything that had 
happened for many a day, — the visit to the Delphic temple 
on that stormy night. The broken door to the sanctuary 
and the papers scattered about the floor had borne witness, 
that all the revelations she had that night were not of a 
prophetic nature, nor the children of fancy. Hermione 
looked up to the stars and coupled the thought of their 
clearness and constancy, of the calm majesty of heaven, 
with that of the changing, unhappy, enigmatical shadow 
life in the valleys of earth. She thought further upon the 
brilliant, but mysterious pictures, ecstacy had unrolled to her 
inner eye. It was Philip’s image, her other self, she had 
seen floating on the river, the river of Time, that carried 
him with resistless speed, with necessity’s irresistible cur- 
rent, to the realms of eternity. As she saw him then, she had 
seen him in her dream, such she saw him in her mother’s 


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face, which, preserved by the pencil, adorned the room 
where she now gave herself up to her thoughts. Philip 
had hastened before his father and sister to find his mother 
— this was the explanation Chrysanteus had found for the 
vision. 

The answer to the other question, which Chrysanteus, or 
rather his daughter, had laid before the oracle, concealed 
itself under the folds of a purple mantle lying upon the 
ground. If this vision had not been broken off by the 
strange revelation from the world of reality, for which the 
temple door was beaten in, a gust of wind sweeping over 
the sun-burnt desert might perhaps have blown away the 
mantle and shown the face of the slain, who lay beneath it, 
or Hermione herself, with trembling hand, might have lifted 
a corner to behold the unknown features of Constantius or 
at worst, the well-known face of the loved Julian. As it 
was, the revelation was little less enigmatical than the 
future it would portray. But the hot sand of the desert, the 
horsemen hurrying away in the distance, with their high 
caps and bows slung over their shoulders ? These riders, 
Chrysanteus had said, resembled none other than Persian 
warriors. The desert could perhaps be found in the rav- 
aged boundaries between the Roman Empire and the newly- 
reestablished kingdom of Xerxes. Constantius was just 
setting out on a campaign against the Persians, when the 
news of Julian’s revolt called him back to save his throne. 
Must not then this vision, which portended death and 
defeat, refer rather to Constantius ? Chrysanteus and 
Hermione thought so ; for they hoped it. 

On the import of the visions she had conjured up from 
the depths of her soul’s unconsciousness, they had con- 
versed both on their way home from the temple, and often 
since. Chrysanteus listened to Hermione’s account with 
seriousness and anxiety. It was not superstition, but his 
logical mode of thinking, which produced this. It may 


The Last Athenian. 


171 


seem wonderful to us, sons of fathers who gave the air- 
pump, electrical machine and chemical furnace place among 
the constellations of heaven. We so fear superstition that 
we are filled with prejudice against everj-thing which lies 
beyond the hounds of every day experience ; and we should 
call the clearest philosophy mystical, if she seriously led us 
into the world above the senses, and shut the door after her. 
In general we content ourselves with a few maxims, service- 
able, it is true, in saving us from sliding back into the 
soul’s darkness, but unfit to carry us forward on the path 
of light. We think we have done enough for our indepen- 
dence, when we do not sell our souls to the faith proffered 
us in childhood. But it is the independence of the pendu- 
lum, swinging between two extremes, — between Voltaire 
and Cagliostro. We are far from resembling those heathen 
philosophers, who exercised their thoughts as an athlete 
his limbs, trusted to reason as he to his muscles, and with 
firm foot, power-swelling arms and cestus-clenching hands, 
stood ready to conquer or fall for the independence of the 
human soul and reason’s right. If they found in this 
independence no peace for their religious feelings, if a 
pitying hand then extended them a prisoner’s chains for 
shield, they cast them back, preferring to fight with free 
limbs and die heroes. If on the other hand they found 
such a peace within themselves, if their thoughts had 
given them the key to Heaven, they entered in like chil- 
dren, enjoyed the magnificence of the bright hall, spoke with 
spirits v in the spirit-tongue, never asking if the world 
without understood them or not, or took their converse 
with the unseen as a deceitful play with empty shadows. 

In the visions Hermione had in the Delphic temple, the 
figure of Charmides had mingled itself. Hermione did not 
wonder at this, for she thought often of this youth, against 
her will. Love for him, or rather for that Charmides who 
was no more, — the uncorrupted youth striving after virtue 


172 


The Last Athenian. 


and wisdom, — still lay in her heart. She had not yet been 
able to stifle this ; at times she did not even wish to. The 
scion of an opulent family, related to Chrysanteus, Charmi- 
des had in childhood lost both father and mother, and had 
been reared in Chrysanteus’ house. Hermione and he had 
grown up together. Chrysanteus greeted this tender rela- 
tive as his son, — for he had lost his own, — transferred to 
him a father’s entire tenderness, and attached the greatest 
hopes to this child, so richly gifted by nature with beauty 
and lively intelligence. To these Greeks it was a paradox, 
if a beautiful physique did not enshrine rich talents that 
education would properly develope. They would not sep- 
arate beauty and truth ; would hear of no gulf between 
soul and nature. Plato, their first thinker, was a man of 
ideal beauty; Sophocles, their greatest tragedian, as well. 
Their philosophers preferred to gather about them beautiful 
youths and were seldom deceived in their choice. Socrates, 
though outwardly ugly, cherished this opinion and admitted 
with reference to his satyr nose, that nature had sown the 
seeds of many vices in his soul. But he added that philoso- 
phy had ennobled him. And here was the strong side of 
this view. The Greeks gave the soul sovereign power over 
nature ; they saw, that the beautiful could be rendered ugly 
by vice, the ugly beautified by virtue. For Socrates’ disci- 
ples, who loved him to ecstacy, the satyr nose disappeared 
while he spoke of virtue ; and they ended by finding him 
beautiful, — something divine so often shone through his 
features. 

Hermione was a Greek, and every object which sur- 
rounded her, even the air she breathed, had from childhood 
increased her inborn love for the Beautiful in all its revela- 
tions. In vain preached not only the Christians, but many 
Grecian philosophers, of nature’s corruption and the morti- 
fication of the flesh ; she listened, it is true, to these teach- 
ings, felt the ideal world that Chrysanteus opened to her 


The Last Athenian . 


173 


to be the only perfect, the only one worth striving for, hut 
to regard the other as only sinful and despicable, — that she 
could not. She loved the stars and skies, the hills, woods 
and fountains of earth, its flowers and its birds ; she was 
charmed by the forms of art, and every child’s clear eye 
was to her a clear contradiction of the assumption that the 
human soul was a child of wrath and from the beginning 
totally depraved. A further proof she needed not, though 
she possessed many such in the wise, whose lives had been a 
continued advance in virtue ; in the loving, w r ho suffered to 
make others happy ; in heroes who offered up themselves 
for what they considered beautiful and true. In all this she 
saw the divine revealing itself in the visible. She beheld 
this divinity in every noble form, heard it in every harmo- 
nious voice. The mirror had taught her that she herself 
possessed a captivating exterior. Why should' she hide it 
from herself or others? She could not even if she would. 
She was glad and thankful for this good gift from God and 
nature, and its possession w'as to her an incentive to become 
worthy of it by ennobling her soul. 

To misuse this beauty, to cut off her rich locks or hide 
her figure in an unbecoming dress, as did many Christian 
fanatics, would have been to her a deed of blasphemy and 
irreligion. And from that hour — never to be forgotten — 
when love suddenly became a consciousness in her bosom, 
when the two playmates, foster brother and sister, without 
blushing, without embarrassment, following the mandate of 
their innocent hearts, revealed their modest flame, and gave 
each other that calm, indescribable bliss, whicli lies in the 
interchange of first love, — from that hour Hermione regard- 
ed herself as no longer the sole owner of her charms ; they 
were treasures she preserved for their rightful master, the 
noble and virtuous youth, to whom she had given her 
heart. 

In the first days, the first year of this love, how often 

11 


1T4 


The Last Athenian. 


they expressed their joy at the gift of beauty, each found 
in the other ! Of their soul’s sympathy, of mutual respect. 
— that cold word, that stiff Sunday suit, in which man 
approaches woman and woman man, to compliment and 
take possession of each other — of such they never spoke. 
Sympathy, respect they possessed, but they did not need 
them as a cloak for the feelings their beauty called forth, 
since in them they found nothing to blush for. And how 
could Hermione entertain such a thought, she, who never 
heard a melodious word, without longing to see that word 
crystalized into an independent being among beautiful 
forms ; she to whom even the dry syllogisms of logic ap- 
peared as winged cherubs playing with chains of flowers ; 
and who never heard the word Idea, without thinking of a 
heavenly, radiant virgin ! 

Charmides had been doubly dear to her by her love, and 
the hopes her father attached to his person. As she tended 
her flowers, watched, watered them, moved them from 
sunshine to shadow, from shadow to sunshine, so Chrysan- 
teus had endeavored to remove all hindrances to the devel- 
opment of a nature, which already in its germ gave good 
promise. He had exercised his ward’s thoughts and limbs, 
had endeavored to incite him by lofty examples, had sought 
to steel his soul against future suffering, as against future 
temptation, but to make it tender and sensitive to all good 
impressions, and open as a trumpet for the divine voice within 
him ; — with Charmides he had connected .the thought of 
the future of the Platonic -doctrine, in him hoped for a suc- 
cessor upon the teacher’s chair of the Academy, a new 
champion, when he was gone, for the religion of the beau- 
tiful and the freedom of reason. 

Charmides at first had answered these expectations. 
When he had attained his majority, he plighted his troth 
to Hermione, and with Chrysanteus’ consent, set out on a 
journey through Syria, Egypt and Italy. On returning to 


The Last Athenian. 


175 


Athens, he appeared entirely changed in disposition and 
feelings. Towards Hermione he was strange and capricious, 
now sad and mysterious, now bursting into protestations of 
love, which terrified her, because the}^ bore the stamp of 
something wild and unnatural ; now, and this oftenest, he 
conducted himself towards her with a kind of gallantry, 
which the beauties of Naples might perhaps have consid- 
ered charming, but which mortified and wounded Hermi- 
one. Busy rumor brought to her ear one amour after the 
other in which Charmides had played the hero. At first 
she did not believe them ; but he himself did everything to 
dispel the delusion, with which she still strove to cling to 
her dream of pure love and earthly joy, her faith in Char- 
mides’ noble nature and high destiny. Chrysanteus em- 
ployed in vain his knowledge of men and an eloquence 
inspired by tenderness, to bring back his foster-son and 
former pupil to the way he had forsaken. Intercourse be- 
tween them grew colder and colder. Hermione saw her 
father’s grief and felt her own doubly poignant. The Chris- 
tians pointed to Charmides as a proof of the heathen phi- 
losopher’s ability to educate n^n. He surrounded himself 
with the most dissolute youths of Athens, and was the 
object of the admiration or calculations of his guilty com- 
panions and the Athenian courtesans, but of the contempt 
of all others. The last time he showed himself at Chrys- 
anteus’ house, the latter was absent. He found Hermione 
alone. She reproached him with tears for all the anguish 
he had" caused her father and herself. He answered with a 
jest, and left her. Shortly a/ter, he entered upon a new 
amour, more notorious than his former ones, for the other 
person in the intrigue was the beautiful Eusebia, wife of 
Annaeus Domitius. Annaeus took the affair with such 
imperturbable composure, that it really supported the 
friendly interpretation of the Christians, who resolved the 
matter into an attempt at conversion, which Eusebia had 


176 


The Last Athenian. 


made in her anxiety for the young man’s salvation. But 
when the story, in a less reputable form, reached Hermione, 
she returned to Charm ides her betrothal ring, deadly 
wounded in her affections. 

To love more than once appeared to Hermione an impos- 
sibility. Even now, when she would forget Charmides, she 
was convinced that the heart’s instinct and first love could 
never deceive. She gave him up as lost for this life, but 
not forever. She believed in a future state, where two 
souls, one in the beginning when they rested in the bosom 
of God’s thought, would again unite, after they had been 
purified from the imperfections and delusions which on 
earth had driven them from each other. This belief, 
imbibed from Plato’s writings, and embraced, perhaps by 
every person once in his life, gave her comfort, mixed with 
sorrow, when she listened to her natural longing to be 
joined to the man she loved, and perpetuate that divine 
spark of life which she herself had received through the 
love of a man and woman. 

Beautiful and lovely as she was, and heiress to an 
uncommonly large estate, Hermione had many suitors ; but 
had rejected the offers of marriage the bolder among them 
dared to advance. She reconciled herself with the thought 
of living unmarried. Like the fabled arrow, which healed 
the wound it gave, love alone can heal the wounds of love. 
Hermione had much to love. She loved nature and philos- 
ophy ; she loved to diffuse happiness to all around her, she 
loved above all her father, whose strivings and lonely 
position as champion of a sinking culture and a down- 
trodden religion, she supported and shared. Bathing in the 
fresh waves of this love, her soul retained its clearness, 
power and health ; it was in harmony with itself, though 
its chords sounded mournfully. 

* # 

Just before dusk Clemens was sent by bishop Peter to 


The Last Athenian. 


177 


Simon the pillar-saint, with a loaf and a flask of wine. 
The flask was the same that Peter had so carefully filled in 
his study the night before. The following night, Simon 
did not sing his evening psalm. 

Chrysanteus did not return till midnight. He had then 
witnessed how the War God’s temple was taken possession 
of by the Christian priesthood. Peter had thought it well 
to defer this until an hour when he need not fear a crowd nor 
unnecessary attention. A detachment of soldiers, com- 
manded by the tribune Pylades, had accompanied the priests 
and stationed themselves before the temple. A civil officer 
read from the steps the imperial edict which gave the temple 
to the Christians ; a few belated wayfarers, whose route acci- 
dentally led them across the market and who had stopped, 
astonished at the strange spectacle, were made to represent 
the Athenian people, to whom the edict was directed. The 
reading closed as usual, with the command to shout ; “ Live 
the emperor ! ” The soldiers chimed in from a sense of 
duty, the priests heartily, and the accidental representatives 
of the Athenian people by compulsion, an old, slavish 
custom. An aged citizen, whose mouth was silent, but 
whose heart perhaps cried : u Live Julian ! ” was cut down 
by a fanatical soldier. The old man was on his way to 
procure medicine for. a daughter taken suddenly ill. He 
succeeded, before he died, in intrusting not only his errand, 
but his starving family to Chrysanteus, who hastened to 
provide help. After this the edict was nailed up on the 
temple s door, the War God’s statue and altar were over- 
turned and cast out, the paintings cut in pieces, the 
temple’s treasure confiscated, the archives with their annual 
chronicles burned up, and the holy cross, the symbol of 
peace and reconciliation, planted before the entrance in the 
pool of blood beside the murdered man. 

This took place by the light of lamps and torches, set in 
the porticoes and around the market statues. Up on the 


178 


The Last Athenian. 


Acropolis the giant image of the Goddess of Wisdom out- 
lined itself against the starry sky of midnight. Perhaps 
at that moment its bronze bosom heaved. 


CHAPTER XI. 

RACHEL. 

Athens with its hustling port, Pirieus, had attracted a 
considerable number of those nomads of civilization, those 
Bedouins of traffic, who call themselves the children of 
Israel. They had long ago lost their little native land, and 
already succeeded in all peace and quietness in winning 
their greater, called by astronomers Tellus, by common 
people the world. Among the Hebrews in Athens was 
one Baruk, a very respectable man, for he walked blameless 
after the manner of his fathers, was compassionate towards 
the poor of his people, and also not unfrequently towards 
Gojim’s needy children, and above all, he was rich, very 
rich. He owned ships whose masts were of the cedars of 
Lebanon, whose oars were of oak from Bashan or the 
country round about ; and to follow the prophet Ezekiel in 
every particular, he would willingly have given them sails 
of Egyptian linen and awnings, dyed with purple from the 
isles of Elisha, had he not found this to be altogether too 
expensive a piece of extravagance. With these ships he 
imported Indian and Egyptian muslins, the delight of the 
Athenian courtesans, incense from Sheba and Rema, colored 
woollen cloths and grain from Syria, tin and lead from 
Africa, slaves not only from Tubal and Mesheck, but from 
all quarters of the world. These wares he exchanged for 
others, which he exported in the same vessels : olives, figs, 
wax, horses, arms, hooks and works of art. Baruk knew 


The Last Atheniafi. 


179 


to a dot, what a Plato or Homer in manuscript was worth, 
though he had never read either ; he could with the glance 
of a connoisseur estimate the worth in money, of statues 
and paintings, with which he would have regarded it a 
deadly sin to adorn his house. Statues of saints and gods, 
crosses and amulets rolled through his hands; hut he washed 
them with scrupulous care after touching such things, read 
his prayers and smiled complacently at the innocent grains 
of gold, the unholy stream had left between his fingers. 

He drove also a brisk business in money, and lent wil- 
lingly, against good security and at a per cent, not espec- 
ially inhuman, to the giddy sons of J avan, those accursedly 
handsome and shamefully joyous Athenian youths, destined 
irredeemably to the Gehinom of destruction, who with such 
impudent glances followed his daughter, the dark-haired 
Rachel, when she, between father and mother, modestly 
walked to the synagogue. 

“ Rachel, do not raise your veil so ! ” old Esther would 
often say on such occasions. 

Dear mother,” Rachel would reply, “ this veil will 
smother me, I can hardly breathe ! ” 

“ I will make an air hole in it with the first knife I get 
hold of,” said old Baruk. “ It is of stuff from Damascus, 
and worth, between us, fifty pieces of gold, but a hole I 
will make, nevertheless, I promise you.” 

Rachel had not yet completed her seventeenth year. She 
was a s pretty girl with swelling form, black locks, well 
formed nose, a trifle large perhaps, and the most brilliant 
eyes that were ever lit beneath an Oriental sun. There 
was scarce a youth of Abraham’s race in all Athens, 
Piraeus included, who did not burn for Rachel and the 
estimable inheritance, which would some day fall to her. 
But every one was not worthy the rich Baruk’s pretty 
daughter. Baruk knew this as well as Esther. When he 
on this account betrothed his daughter, it was to no less a 


180 


The Last Athenian. 


person than the rabbi Jonas, the pride of the Athenian syn- 
agogue, a man still young, but very learned, who not only 
knew the books of the law by heart, but had also studied 
Grecian philosophy, and had written long commentaries well 
larded with cabalistic speculations on the deep works of his 
countryman, Philo. 

The parents had not given themselves the trouble to 
consult their daughter’s taste. This was not the custom 
among their people, and for that matter Rachel could not 
be otherwise than exceedingly well pleased with a man of 
so extraordinary learning, so great eloquence in the syna- 
gogue, and furthermore of so respectable a family as the 
rabbi Jonas. 

They little thought, that Rachel’s heart was already 
bound up in another — and he — Oh, horrors ! — was one of 
Javin’s uncircumcised sons, who had not a drop of Abra- 
ham’s blood in his veins, and could not read a letter in the 
holy rolls ! 

It is the evening following that on which the unknown 
philosopher visited Chrysanteus’ house. • 

The day is the Hebrew Sabbath. Baruk and Esther 
have repaired to the synagogue. Bachel has found some 
reason for being allowed to remain at home. She thus 
denies herself the enjoyment and edification of hearing the 
thoughtful Jonas explain the prophet Daniel. She neglects 
the opportunity of seeing the person of her betrothed, at 
the very moment when it is comely ; when standing before 
the altar his dark, melancholy eyes light up, his brow 
wrinkled by study becomes clear, and his bent figure erects 
itself, as the choir sings : “ How beautiful are thy tents , 0 
Jacob , and thy dwellings 0 Israel ! ” and as the assembled 
congregation cry : “ Hear , 0 Israel. The Lord our God 
is the only God.” Then the spirit of his fathers and the 
recollection of their achievements stream through him ; 
then in fane}' he builds up the destroyed temple of J erusa- 


The Last Athenian. 


181 


lem and gathers together his people, every one under his 
own vine and fig tree. Then his glances forget themselves, 
and hasten up to the women’s gallery, that they may image 
behind one of the veils there the face of the girl he loves, 
the daughter of Baruk. 

Babbi J onas has a fine, pale face, which yet in Rachel’s 
eye is ugly. He has a beard, like the mane on a Cappa- 
docian horse, long, black and shiny, that Rachel thinks 
disgusting. He sits often with Baruk and discourses such 
profound things about the Attic Moses* and the true 
Moses, the Platonic Philo and the Philonic Plato, that 
Baruk strokes his gray beard and his caftan in sheer 
amazement ; but Rachel yawns at this talk and deems it 
unendurable. He is timid in his sweetheart’s presence — 
and like a bashful lover, is confused by her beaming eyes. 
Rachel therefore thinks him a booby. For alas ! Rachel 
has a manly ideal, in comparison with whom all other men 
seem to her but as abortive attempts of our Lord to shape 
something passable in the masculine gender. How ugly 
the name Jonas sounds in her ear, how comely Charmides ! 
Jonas has never anointed his limbs with oil, never tumbled 
in the Palaestrian sands, never sat upon a horse’s back, 
therefore his own back is crooked, his step heavy, his 
motions in the stiff caftan without grace. And Charmides ! 
He bears unseen wings of Hermes on his feet ; his elastic 
limbs, enveloped in the white tunic and the Tyrian mantle, 
seem to lift him from the earth. Jonas’ bashful, sorrowful 
look, — what is that, even if it looked into eternity, to a 
single glance of Charmides, — one of those bold, command- 
ing glances, that at once frightens a spirited girl and 
enchants her? Rachel has heard from her father that 
Charmides is a prodigal ; she has seen him many times not 
only on the way to the synagogue but at her father’s house, 
whither he had come to borrow money. Rachel is charmed 


* Plato. 


182 


The Last Athenian. 


with his prodigality, which makes him a thousand times 
more lovable in her eyes. She is accustomed to see every 
little coin turned twice over, hears Sirach’s maxim on econ- 
omy repeated to satiety every day. Charmides who, smiling, 
strews about him this metal, which others dig up with their 
fingers out of the mud — what can this Charmides be, hut 
an uncommon, superhuman being? And as to learning, 
for which Baruk and Esther so unboundedly reverence 
Rabbi Jonas, Charmides is immensely more learned ! 
Charmides himself, with noble candor has assured her of 
this ! Should she not then believe it ? And although he 
is so inconceivably learned, he is also joyous, speaks per- 
fectly comprehensible charming things, and sings to the 
lyre the most playful songs. 

Should Rachel at some moments forget Charmides, there 
.s in Baruk’s house an old maid-servant, who willingly 
leads back her thoughts to him. She also, the servant, has 
her reasons for admiring Charmides’ prodigality. Of the 
gold he scatters, some has fallen even into her hand, and 
in gratitude for this she has undertaken to be messenger 
and informer between him and Rachel. 

It is a wink from her wdiich has persuaded Rachel to 
stay at home this evening. Rachel has ascended to the 
balcony of her father’s house. This is her chosen spot on 
such beautiful evenings. It commands an extended view 
over the eastern and northern quarters of the city. To 
the west, on the contrary, the roofs and walls of adjacent 
houses meet the eye, but between these peep out bits 
of the steep street, leading from Scamhonidse down to 
Ceramicus. It is this street one takes to and from the 
synagogue. Such a watchful sentinel as Baruk’s old maid 
servant can thus see the estimable pair as they approach, 
and give notice to her young mistress in time. 

The house has two entrances. The principal one, which 
faces the street, is furnished with an iron bossed door, that 


The Last Athenian. 


183 


Barak circumspectly closes every time he goes out. The 
other is a little door in the rear of the house. This can 
only be opened from within, and leads out to a sloping, 
grass-gr^wn place, strewn with flat stones, which forms 
the highest point of the Scambonidian hill. This door has 
been opened by the servant ; a stair-way leads thence up to 
the balcony. 

Rachel leans against the railing and looks out over the 
town. The heavens are clear, and fresh breezes* blow from 
the sea. Rachel is uneasy; her heart beats almost as 
violently as when she awaited the first secret meeting with 
Charmides. Since then she has met him often, in this 
very place on moonlit nights, after parents and the few 
house-servants had gone to rest; and through custom, 
together with the conviction of the innocence of such inter- 
views, every fear, every scruple has vanished. Charmides 
had come to refresh her with sport and jest, when weary of 
the sameness of home and the confined life she was com- 
pelled to lead ; he had tuned her cithara and taught her to 
call forth little melodies from it ; he had spoken of the glad, 
chequered life down in the city, where she could never 
wend her way without father Barak on one side and 
mother Esther on the other ; he had imitated rabbi J onas’ 
gait, gestures and manner of speaking so^erfectly, that 
Rachel was ready to choke with laughter ; he had wound 
her long dark locks round his fingers and called them the 
most beadtiful rings, more precious than gold set with 
diamonds. He had further assured her, — what seemed to 
Rachel at first entirely incredible, — that he could not live, 
if he did not see and speak with her now and then. She 
must nevertheless believe his assurance, for he was so won- 
derfully wise, had cast such penetrating glances into nature, 
and knew best himself the secret conditions of his exist- 
ence. But now Rachel herself felt something like this, for 
latterly she was never entirely happy except in his company 
under the influence of his eyes. 


184 


The Last Athenian. 


The fear, which now caused Rachel’s heart to heat with 
such restless throbs, was one, that spread itself with the 
air over the thousand houses and temples lying between 
the hills, Scambonidse, Museion, Acropolis, and Colyttus. 
Baruk had evidently been troubled in mind during the 
whole day. At noon he had sent away the servants on 
some pretext and carried his more valuable property, gold, 
silver, money and important papers down into a secret 
vault under the cellar. He had tried to give a quieting 
answer to the girl’s questions about the cause for this cir- 
cumspection. But from her mother and the servants, 
Rachel had learned that during the past night occurrences 
had taken place which created fears of a tumultuous out- 
break in the city. 

As Rachel now stood, leaning against the railing of the 
balcony, and looking out over the city illumined by the 
setting sun or resting in the lengthening shadows, thrown 
by the hills, she longed for Charmides, and almost feared 
he would not come. It seemed to her as if Charmides 
must have left the city, since it was no longer the gay, 
lively Athens, but quivered with frightened forebodings 
She felt that his presence, the sight of his cheery face, on 
whose brow she never detected a shadow, was the only 
thing that cofffd drive away her melancholy. 

How glad she was, when suddenly upon the top of 
Scambonidae, appeared a figure that was his ! He looked 
up at the balcony and beckoned to Rachel. In the back 
door stood the old servant maid who signaled him that 
the coast was clear. Soon his elastic step was heard on 
the stairs. Rachel turned ; he stood before her, happy 
and smiling, and extending her a bouquet of the choicest 
flowers. Hot a trace of care could be discerned in his 
being. He had just come from the bath, and seemed 
radiant with health and youth. Rachel had never seen him 
handsomer. 


The Last Athenian. 


185 


“ You have come then at last ! ” she exclaimed, and felt 
ready to cast herself with sisterly affection into his arms. 

“ I never neglect a single one of those rare moments, 
when I can meet Rachel,” answered Charmides. “ Wis- 
dom and Rachel are my goddesses. I offer to the former 
the hours the latter cannot grant me. Are your parents at 
the synagogue, my child?” 

“ Yes,” replied Rachel, gazing enchanted at the beautiful 
flowers Charmides had given her. 

“ The synagogue is a most excellent arrangement. I like 
people w’ho worship their God. But I may with reason 
remark, that your service is altogether too short. It ought 
to extend through the whole night. When do your parents 
come home ? ” 

“ Alas, they will not tarry long this evening.” 

“ Let us employ the moments then for our divine ser- 
vice,” said Charmides, taking the girl’s hand and with 
gentle force inducing her to take a seat on the sofa by his 
side. “ My hours of devotion are those when I gaze into 
thine eyes.” 

“ Pie ! you talk like a heathen, which you are, it is true. 
But tell me, Charmides, you are also a philosopher ? ” 

“What a question!” said Charmides laughing. “Of 
oourse I am a philosopher, and one of the very noblest as 
well.” 

“ Yes, yous are very learned, — I know that, — hut are you 
also very virtuous ? ” 

“Certainly, learning and virtue are twins, which are 
never separated.” 

“ I am so glad to hear this, for yesterday Jonas said to 
my father, that certain virtuous heathen, such as ” 

“ Charmides ? ” 

“ No, he did not say that, but such as — as — Plato, I 
believe his name is — could certainly be counted among the 
chosen people, although they had never eaten the pass- 
over.” 


186 


The Last Athenian. 


“ In this the gay Jonas was right, my Rachel.” 

“ Oh, how glad I was, for I thought instantly, then 
Charmides should also he counted among my people, and he 
is no longer a stranger to a daughter of Israel.” 

“Just hear! You philosophize excellently, even you. 
It would be a queer kind of a god, who liked only the 
caftan-clad, long-bearded, hook-nosed brokers, calling them- 
selves Jews. He would have a very different taste from 
you.” 

Rachel blushed. Charmides took the bouquet and 
fastened it on her bosom. 

“ See,” continued he, pointing to the sun, already half 
sunk beneath the sea, “ the same sun for our eyes, the same 
desire for bliss in our hearts, how then can we call one 
another strangers ? ” 

“the same heaven, and up there above the stars the 
same God,” said Rachel, with a deep look at Charmides. 
“ That evening, when I gave you the little ring which — 
which you do not wear on your finger — Charmides, where 
do you keep the ring ? ” 

“ Here, on my heart,” answered Charmides, drawing it 
from his bosom. 

“ Ah, pardon me ! I wished to convince myself that you 
had preserved it,” continued the girl, her face beaming 
with joy. “But I was about to tell you, that the same 
evening I dreamed that we should be together forever. My 
parents embraced you and called you son. Jonas also was 
present. He was not a bit jealous ; he only talked and 
talked with you about that Plato and other strange things. 
And you knew how to answer him upon everything. It 
was quite evident you were more learned than he.” 

“ Your dream will prove true. A time will come, when 
we shall always be together.” 

“ Do you really believe it ? ” 

“ Does it not depend upon ourselves ? Look on the sea, 


The Last Athenian. 


187 


Rachel. It glitters all purple, and gold bordered clouds 
mirror themselves there. Do you not long to float over its 
surface, borne by a ship a thousand times more beautiful 
than any of your father’s ? I shall carry you to an island 
I have discovered away there in the west, far, far beyond 
the horizon. They call it the isle of the blest. It is a 
waif of that Paradise which sank in the sea. There will 
we live, you and I.” 

“Oh, what do you say?” exclaimed Rachel, whose child- 
ish ignorance of the world gave Charmides’ fancy opportu- 
nity to disport itself in the most extravagant manner. 
“ But,” she added thoughtfully, “ I cannot leave my father 
and mother behind here in Athens.” 

“ They shall accompany us, Rachel. On the isle of the 
blest are immeasurable stores of that yellow metal, — your 
father’s joy. He shall go with us, gather a ship load of 
gold, and return as the richest mortal upon earth, to rebuild 
your temple. What do you say to this ? ” 

“ Oh, it is splendid ! I must tell father what you are 
going to do.” 

“ No, no, not yet. My plan must be kept secret, the 
same as our meetings. Now remember ! ” 

“Well, as you will.” 

In her lover’s presence, Rachel had entirely forgotten the 
fear which had disturbed her. But now', when the conver- 
sation fell upon leaving Athens, she remembered that the 
city at the present hour was a dangerous place, and she 
confided to Charmides her vague apprehensions. 

In reality the evening was exceptional, as the resounding 
din, which otherwise arose from the city towards Scambo- 
nidae’s top, was nearly silenced. An unusual stillness pre- 
vailed, broken only by the clatter of some solitary wagon 
rattling through the streets, or an occasional hammer-stroke 
from the work-shops near by. 

A sharp ear however, could at this very moment have 


188 


The Last Athenian. 


caught a hum of human voices, almost drowned by the 
distance, coming from the north and approaching ever 
nearer. 

“ Bah ! ” said Charmides in answer to Rachel’s questions, 
what have you to fear ? You Hebrews, like the Olympian 
gods, from their clouds, can in peace divert yourselves with 
others’ battles. What have you to do with either statue- 
worshippers or Christians ? ” 

“ But it is terrible ! Do you really believe, then, that it 
will come to blows, to bloodshed — and here, — here in 
Athens, perhaps before my father’s door ? ” asked Rachel, 
turning pale. “ But what has happened ? What is it that 
provokes them against each other ? ” 

“ Last night the Christians stole a temple from the fol- 
lowers of the old religion, and confiscated the temple’s 
treasure.” 

“ But why, why do they behave so wickedly ? ” exclaimed 
Rachel. 

“ Why ? All cannot be brokers here in the world, hut 
all will have gold. Those who are not brokers like the 
Jews, are robbers like the Christians. That is the expla- 
nation. May the pack fight ! I know my own. They are 
too cowardly to venture their lives. The Christians can 
take from them all, even life itself, and they will not dare 
to defend it. The Christians themselves, my Rachel, they 
are men ! Or rather, they are wild beasts — holder than 
lions, more blood-thirsty than tigers ! The sports of the 
amphitheatre are forbidden. We need them not, for we 
have the Christians. We take our seats on the spectators’ 
row and clap our hands, when they tear each other in 
pieces. We have a magnificent spectacle to await.” 

“ O God, how you speak now, Charmides! You almost 
frighten me.” 

“ Calm yourself, girl ! I am not dangerous. When I 
cannot turn aside the lightning, or check the storm, then 


The Last Athenian. 


189 


I simply decide to enjoy their magnificence. But hear 
further what passed last night, and spreads alarm through 
the city. The dominant Christian party had discovered 
that the oppressed held secret service in a chalk-pit, not far 
from the hideous Pillar-Simon’s field. They have been 
surprised in the midst of their prayers, soldiers have burst 
into their under-ground church, taken captive all who could 
not escape, bound and thrown them into prison. It is said 
that the foremost champion of the oppressed party, a priest 
with one of those long, loathsome names the Christians 
have invented — Athanasius they call him — was present and 
had just preached, when the event took place; but that in 
the darkness and confusion he succeeded in escaping. The 
prisoners are about fifty in number ; most of them belong 
to the mob, hut several are respectable men and citizens of 
Athens. The law condemns them to death. You can con- 
ceive what an uprising this has created among their friends, 
comrades and brothers in the faith. The prisoners cannot 
expect pardon. Grief, amazement and madness rule the 
many thousands who call themselves Ilomoousians. It is 
believed they are arming themselves, forcibly to release the 
captives. The dominant party’s leader, the bishop of 
Athens, wishes nothing better, since fie has troops at his 
disposal, and \Vill employ the opportunity to crush his 
opponents at a blow. So here you have the news, my dark- 
eyed girl. How your paleness becomes you ! I shall always 
be tempted to frighten you, to see you thus. But be calm ! 
Charmides is here with you. Here, here in my bosom, are 
you afraid here ? ” 

Charmides had without opposition pressed the trembling 
girl to his breast and played with her black locks. 

“ I should not fear if you were always here. But you 
come and go. You will be away, and then perhaps — no, I 
do not dare to think of such a moment.” 

“ Unseen I shall be near you and in visible form stand 

12 


190 


The Last Athenian. 


by your side, if danger threaten. But now not a word 
more of fear or danger. Look up to heaven ! The stars 
begin to glow there. Where is your cithara, child ? ” 

It lay near Charmides. He took it up, tuned it, and 
sang to its accords a pretty, joyous song. Rachel listened 
and smiled. Then he commenced in another key a song of 
love, of tender longing, of fidelity till death. Rachel’s 
look was tearful, as he laid the cithara aside. 

“ What ? Tears ? Dear little goose ! ” said he. “ Your 
eyes have warmed m} r soul, but tears turn them to suns, 
which burn it up. Shut them, or you blind me ! Shut 

them, girl of the east ! ” 

And when Rachel obeyed, he threw his arms around her 
neck and pressed on her lips a burning kiss. 

It was the first. Charmides occasionally advanced slowly 
towards his object. He was a new Proteus — different with 
different women. A girl like Rachel was still a temptation 
to his satiated senses, — still greater, the more her simplicity 
contrasted with the worldly experience of his usual mis- 
tresses. Eveiy-day booty he took by storm. With Euse- 
bia, the blase Roman, it was he and not she who coqueted, 
who played modest, temperate, inexperienced ; and though 
Eusebia saw through this, they were both too wise to hunt 
away an illusion, from which both had the same pleasure. 

Rachel loved him. He was all to her. Who wonders 

then, that she felt bliss in that embrace ? But she opened 
her eyes and blushed up to her forehead. Her look bade 
him spare her renewed happiness ; but the bold lover rob- 
bed kiss after kiss. 

Rachel heard not how the distant hum, rising from the 
north, came ever nearer, ever clearer as it mingled with the 
tramp of a mob, — that dull, roaring sound, which such a 
myriad-footed monster causes when advancing through the 
narrow streets of a city, and at every lane, every opening 
it brushes by, swelling, seizing all it meets and joining them 
to itself. 


The Last Athenian. 


191 


But at last there rose above this confused roar, cries, 
piercing and wild, witnessing that the monster was irritated, 
that he sought enemies, and that those enemies must 
tremble for an impending revenge. 

Charmides now released Rachel’s hand. The cries had 
reached his ear. He caught their meaning. He rose to 
his feet and listened. Rachel also heard the swell of the 
approaching tempest. She caught Charmides’ hand and 
clung to him trembling. 

In the terror which seized her, her first thoughts flew to 
her father and mother. 

“ 0 God, my poor parents ! They are out. What can 
have happened to them ! How shall I save them from 
danger? I must go. I will hasten to the synagogue. 
Charmides, follow me ! I fear nothing when you are with 
me. Come ! 

At this moment the old maid-servant’s wrinkled visage 
shot up above the balcony steps. 

“ They come ! ” she cried. 

“ Who ? Who ? ” 

“ Your parents, they are already before the door.” 

u Praised he Hod ! They are saved.” 

“ Farewell my Rachel,” said Charmides hurriedly. “Fear 
not ! I shall he near you.” 

Rachel had scarcely courage to release his hand. They 
heard the heavy street door grate on its hinges. There 
was no time to be lost. Charmides hastened down through 
the hack door and out into the open air. Rachel’s look fol- 
lowed him, as with quick step he walked over the rocky 
summit of the hill and disappeared behind it. Then she 
hastened down to meet her parents. She saw old Esther 
leaning on Rabbi Jonas’ arm. Her father lifted the heavy 
bars with which the inside of the door was furnished, 
laid them crosswise over each other and secured them with 
their iron hooks. 


192 


The Last Athenian. 


Baruk and Esther were not accompanied by the Rabbi 
Jonas alone. Seven or eight powerful young Israelites 
followed them, to remain in the house while the storm 
raged through the city. They would form the garrison of 
the mansion. Baruk, who dealt in arms, was supplied 
with a whole arsenal. In the locked and barred house they 
were to await whatever might take place. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE COMMENCEMENT OF A TRAGEDY. 

u From one pleasure to another ! Praised be Olympus, 
for still scattering roses over the earth ! ” 

So thought Charmides, as he passed down that part of 
Scambonidse, which sloped towards Ceramicus. He felt 
thankful that the hour he had passed with Rachel had 
been an hour of enjoyment ; that is, a shadow of jo}' — truly 
but a shadow, yet he was pleased with it, for he had long 
since given up the real as lost. 

He sought now another diversion. From Ceramicus wild 
cries resounded, a thousand angry voices shouted. It was 
probably the opening chorus to an imposing tragedy. 
Charmides loved tragedies, and hastened to secure a place 
among the beholders. 

It was already dusk, as we know, and the stars began to 
light their lamps in heaven. Such a twilight sets off such 
a spectacle, as a cloudy sky heightens the impression of a 
Gothic temple. It conceals so small particles as little 
human beings, and melts together the great masses, the 
players on this stage, into sublime individuals. 

Charmides stopped a moment before reaching the spot 
where the narrow lanes ended, which on that side climbed 


The Last Athenian. 


193 


the hill. The view hence commanded certain portions of 
the street Ceramicus, interrupted here and there by roof 
and wall, as far as the Areopagus. All these portions were 
filled by a boiling mass, which seemed a single gigantic 
beast, slowly, painfully and convulsively writhing along 
like a wounded serpent. Two torches, gleaming in front, 
were the monster’s eyes. Like Rumor, as the poets de- 
scribe her, this giant body was covered its entire length 
with a mass of tongues, not speaking, not whispering, but 
shrieking with madness. 

Charmides hastened on. He entered a narrow lane, 
which opened out upon the main street. While the latter 
was surcharged with life, the former was desolate as death. 
Doors barred, windows closed, no one to he seen. 

Charmides found himself now upon the very verge of 
the swelling human stream as it rolled by. A step further 
and he had been carried away by its waves. He saw faces 
shoot up ahd vanish, faces contorted by dire wrath or mad- 
ness. 

“ Revenge, revenge ! Death to the heretics ! Death to 
the poisoners ! Death to the AthanasiarfS ! ” 

These cries, mingling with others of the same import, 
rang in his ears. He had not deceived himself. The cur- 
tain was raised, the chorus had begun, — that chorus which 
introduced the long awaited and carefully prepared tragGty. 

Charmides had no desire to be torn away by the whirling 
stream. One offers up with reluctance his. will and the free 
use of his limbs, if he is not pervaded by the spirit which 
fuses the crowding, jostling mass in one. Charmides deter- 
mined to choose a more suitable post of observation. He 
left Ceramicus and went through the desolate side streets to 
the market, after convincing himself that the stream was 
rushing that way. He arrived before it. The market- 
place was empty and deserted by all, save the statues’ silent 
line. It seemed to await with gloomy fear the approaching 


194 


The Last Athenian. 


throng. Charmides ascended the marble steps of the 
Painting-gallery, and took a comfortable position by the 
corner pillar. Close by this the host must pass. It was 
destined to be a breaker against the flood. He would thus 
see everything distinctly. 

The torches, which shone in the van, drew nearer. 
Frantic cries filled the space between Pnyx and Areopagus, 
and were echoed by the market colonnades : 

“ Death to the heretics, Athanasians, poisoners ! ” 

The first waves of the living stream had come. They 
cast a foam of people up on to the gallery steps, then spread 
out quickly like flowing water over the market. The 
torches’ red glare lit up a bier, which rested not upon the 
shoulders, but on the upstretched arms of eager bearers, 
who, when they tired were instantly replaced by others 
eager as they. So at sea, wave yields to wave in bearing on 
the sailing ship. Upon the bier lay a form, scarcely resem- 
bling humanity, for it was Simon the pillar-saint, or his 
earthly tenement. The body was naked. The hear skin, 
which had covered it, lay rolled together under his head, so 
that his horrid face was turned towards the following 
crowd, and his closed eyes, could he illuminated by the 
torches and seen by the mob. Nearest the bier were 
priests with cloaks thrown back and heads bared. Two 
called torches. Beside one of them was Euphemius. 
They were silent, for the key-note they at first had given, 
now resounded in the wild cries, which, by their innate 
force, won conviction from the fanatic thousands. The 
priests were silent, hut they approached the face of the 
dead with their torches, to show it again and again as 
distinctly as possible. And every time rang out with 
increased violence the cry, 

“ Death to the Athanasians ! Poisoners ! Heretics ! 
Death to the poisoners ! ” 

The mob at last swept by. Charmides followed on with 


The Last Athenian . 195 

the last among the stragglers, to see what all this meant, 
and to witness what might ensue. 

“ Citizen, what has happened ? ” he asked. “ What is it, 
that is driving the people to madness ? ” 

“ They have murdered Simon, the confessor and saint , ” 
said the man addressed. “ Have you ears and perceive not 
what the people cry ? ” 

61 1 hear they are crying poisoners and heretics. So it is 
some Athanasian, who has poisoned the saint ? ” 

“ Some Athanasian ? Ho. All of them have done it. 
All Athanasians are accomplices in this murder. They 
could not bear that the orthodox should possess such a 
holy brother as Simon. They feared his intercession with 
God and the martyrs. The Homoousians are poisoners of 
old. Did not Athanasius and his friends administer poison 
to Arius, on the very morning he was to commemorate the 
Lord’s supper in the cathedral of Constantinople ? Have 
they not many times poisoned the wine used by the ortho- 
dox at the sacrament ? Can you doubt then, that it is 
these same heretics who have murdered our Simon? 
Death to the heretics ! Death to the poisoners ! Revenge, 
revenge ! ” 

The man joined in with the never-flagging cry. Char- 
mides hurried back, that he might not be carried away by 
the new crowds which continually reinforced the mob. 
The throng passed directly across the market, rolled into a 
street on the southern slope of the Acropolis, and made its 
way with horrid tumult through the gate that marked the 
boundary between old Athens, “ the city of Theseus,” and 
the new, u the city of Hadrian.” After passing through 
the principal streets of this populous quarter, and recruiting 
itself with the Homoiousians living here, it was led on by 
the priests toward the Christian cathedral, situated in an 
open place in the street, ending at the Diomean gate and 
leading to the old gymnasium Cynosarges. 


196 


The Last Athenian. 


The church was lighted, its doors thrown wide open. 

A strong detachment of soldiers was drawn up near it, 
and in a few moments it was crowded with people. These 
however composed but a small portion of the mighty host 
which filled the open square without, and the neighboring 
streets. Bishop Peter, at the head of his priests, received 
the bier at the principal door. They placed it in the choir 
lit by many-armed candelabra, while the huge temple-dome 
seemed to be raised aloft by the mob’s wild yells. When the 
din rose loudest, the priests, kneeling around the corpse of 
the saint, began a psalm. The pious song could only be 
heard by those standing nearest, who joined in it ; it spread 
more and more, grew in strength, and at last, borne on a 
thousand voices, reached the multitude, without the' temple, 
and now all voices joined in the song. Madness had taken 
rythm and melody. It then passes easily over to a calm, 
but, on occasions like this, to a calm more awful and threat- 
ening, more dangerous than any of its previous manifesta- 
tions, because it is made strong by order. 

And when the psalm was finished, all listened to Peter’s 
powerful voice, as it rang out over the people in the follow- 
ing order : 

“ Go home in peace and await the dawn of day, then will 
the Lord show his mighty power ! ” 

The exhortation was repeated by the priests in the crowd, 
and went through the mass like the command of a general. 

Let us leave the church and repair to the bishop’s palace. 
This evening, Clemens had not been allowed to accompany 
the bishop ; he had been ordered to remain at home. 
Besides himself there was in the palace only the porter and 
the prisoner Theodoras, the same of whom we have already 
spoken. 

About an hour before the scenes just recited, the bishop 
had repaired to the cathedral. Clemens has passed this 
hour in reading a book his foster father had given him, 
upon Christian submission. 


The Last Athenian. 


197 


“You must in everything deny yourself. Your own will 
is a devil. It was following their own will, that brought 
about our first parents’ fall and made our race fallen, sinful, 
and depraved. You have no worse enemy than yourself. 
Learn then to obey, learn to place your own will in subjec- 
tion to another’s. Since God Almighty assumed the form 
of a servant, can you not submit to serve a man and be a 
man’s slave ? Learn to humble yourself, you, dust and 
ashes ! Silence and obey ! Be thankful, that you are not 
your own, hut have an earthly master, for it is safer to obey 
than to be responsible for yourself.” 

So spoke the book to the young reader. And in this case 
the seed was not cast upon stony ground. Who can won- 
der that Constantine favored such a doctrine, when he 
became aware of its true nature ? The degenerate sons of 
the antique republics regarded despotism as a misfortune, 
and unconditional submission to a master as a stern neces- 
sity ; the Christians saw in despotism an unassailable 
institution established by the Lord, and in blind obedience, 
a virtue. 

As regards the young reader, these maxims appeared to 
him in a higher light, — not from themselves, but from his 
own soul, striving towards heavenly purity. 

When it grew dark in his little chamber, he went out 
into the aula, and there continued his eager, thoughtful 
reading. But wdien the stars began to twinkle through 
the ether, he was compelled to lay aside the parchment, its 
letters being no longer discernible. They are like men, of 
little importance if not united ; and when they lost their 
independence, when the darkness came, which volatized 
their individuality, and made one like the other, then the 
soul also was gone, which had just spoken through them. 

Clemens now remembered that it was time to carry 
Simon the pillar-saint a loaf of bread and some wine, for 
Peter had yesterday entrusted this to him as a daily duty. 


198 


The Last Athenian. 


Yes, the time had come and gone ; that dear hook had 
caused him to forget the hour. Deploring this involuntary 
forgetfulness, he threw on his cloak, and went for the 
basket the commissary of the palace had put in order for 
him. It was at this moment that the din from the mob, 
whose march we have described, reached his ear. Clemens 
heeded it not, he thought only of accomplishing his errand. 
But the tumult approached hastily, for Simon’s bier, just 
coming through the Double gate, had not yet gathered around 
itself a greater crowd than the broad Ceramicus could 
easily hold. The porter of the palace had opened the door 
to the vestibule, and was standing without the threshold, 
listening in amazement, and staring at the approaching 
torches. 

“ Wait,” said he to Clemens, “ wait, until we see what it 
means. It seems like a mob. Hear the terrible cries ! It 
is like a coming storm. Let it pass by, before you go ! ” 

The throng was now between the temple of Thesus and 
the bishop’s palace. The cries grew clearer, and Clemens 
now distinguished : u They have murdered him ! Death 
to the poisoners, the Athanasians ! ” 

A moment or two and the van of the column swept by. 
Clemens recognized in the torch -bearers two old brother 
priests; he saw the bier, and as it passed, the object upon 
it. He recognized Simon. 

He needed not to ask what had happened. He saw the 
mob’s wild gestures and heard their frantic yells : “ The 
heretics have murdered him ! Death to the poisoners ! 

Clemens felt himself tempted to join the priests about 
the bier. It would have been breaking the bishop’s com- ' 
mand, but he did not remember this, he forgot his duty 
under the influence of the terrible yet electrifying spectacle. 
Did he not share the feelings which quivered through the 
multitude ? Simon the saint, whom he idolized and rever- 
enced ; Simon, who had laid his hand on his head and bless- 


The Last Athenian. 


199 


ed him, Simon murdered by these heretics, these enemies 
of God, the emperor, and the orthodox, whom it was a duty 
and honor to root out from the earth ! The blood began to 
boil in the youth’s veins; he was seized by the general 
frenzy, the cry sounded like an irresistible command, he 
too would he a drop in the whirling, maddened, overflowing 
flood roaring past him. The porter, standing at his side, 
had been seized by ‘this giddin'ess and vanished in the 
throng,- to which recruits streamed from every gate and 
lane. But at the very moment when Clemens dropped 
his basket, to cast himself into the crowd, a thought flashed 
upon him, which arrested his decision. At the renewed 
S cry “ poisoners ,” he suddenly thought that it was he, 
Clemens, who the evening before had carried food and chink 
i to Simon. Simon had but one meal, — supper — Clemens 
knew this. He did not know however, that Simon, wearied 
by his incessant kneeling, ate then with the hunger of a 
wolf, devouring everything his pious admirers brought him. 
The poisoned food might thus have been given him by some 
other, who came after Clemens. But no such presumption 
j occurred to him. He was the prey of an awful, chilling, 
all-controlling terror. He fancied the threatening cries 
! concerned him ; that the innumerable blood-thirsty eyes 
were directed upon him. He stood as if petrified, till the 
I throng had passed. 

He then picked up his basket and hurried back into the 
aula. As long as the shouts of the mob continued to reach 
his ear, he was unable to collect his thoughts sufficiently to 
seek to combat the fear that had seized him. Agitated, he 
: passed on and entered the rear court of the palace. The 
prisoner, fainting from thirst in a cellar on one side of the 
court yard, had scarcely caught Clemens’ step, before he 
placed his face beside the grating of the cellar window, and 
asked : 

u Who goes there ? ” 


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The Last Athenian . 


“ It is I, Clemens.” 

“Tell me, Clemens, what is passing in the city? The 
cries of a thousand voices have reached me down here. I 
hear them yet. What means it?” 

“ Something awful has happened, Theodorus. I can 
scarcely tell you what it is. I tremble at it myself.” 

“ While you are composing yourself, bring me a little 
water. My thirst is stronger than my curiosity. They 
have entirely forgotten me to-day.” 

“ I dare not, Theodorus. Peter has forbidden us to give 
you water.” 

“ I got some drops from Euphemius last evening. Did 
he disobey the bishop’s order ? I don’t believe it, for I 
know Euphemius.” 

u No the bishop has ordered a certain number of drops a 
day to cool your tongue. You must not think he will let 
you die of thirst. He will only subdue your stubbornness. 
He grieves at your error, Theodorus.” 

“ You hear then, that Euphemius has forgotten me. 
By the Lord, who lives in Heaven, no one has given me a 
drop of water this live -long day. And the food they set 
before me is salt. Hunger has compelled me to taste it. 
Hasten, Clemens ! ” 

“ I dare not,” said Clemens sighing. 

“ Boy, I suffer the torments of the rich man in the lake 
of fire. Woe to your hard young heart ! ” 

Theodorus left the little window. He threw himself 
upon his straw pallet and pressed his parched tongue, as 
before, against the cold cellar wall. 

The silence which followed the prisoner’s words, uttered 
in a tone of quiet despair, most powerfully affected the 
young reader.' Theodorus had silently given himself up to 
his pangs. Clemens heard a sigh they pressed from him. 
He could bear no more. He hastened back into the aula, 
and on to Euphemius’ chamber, took the bunch of keys and 


The Last Athenian. 


201 


jug he found there, filled the latter with water, and ran 
back to the prison. He opened the outer door, stepped 
down a few stairs and stood before the grated door of the 
cell. 

“ Clemens, is it you ? ” asked the prisoner from within. 

“ Yes, I come with water. Here, here ! 99 

“ Praised be God, who has touched your heart ! PreSs 
upon a bolt down below, and the door will open itself.” 

Clemens fumbled till he found the bolt. He drew it 
back. Instantly the door flew open, and the prisoner’s 
figure appeared in the darkness. He had, without looking, 
found the water jug, as the thirsty antelope scents a spring 
in the desert. Clemens heard how he drank in long deep 
draughts. 

“ God’s good gift ! I can feel now what the water of 
life is to the soul. Brother Clemens, I shall never forget 
him, who gave me this drink. Brother, you have been 
very disobedient, very guilty, for you have exceeded the 
prescribed measure and refreshed not only my tongue, but 
nty whole being. How old are you now ? 99 

“ Eighteen.” 

" I do not wish to see you when you are as old as Euphe- 
mius. You were always a straight and comely plant ; pity 
that you should be a crooked tree. But it is pitch dark 
here — let us go up and see what is passing in the city. 
Will you follow me ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” exclaimed Clemens in terror, 
and seized Theodoras’ arm. Brother, do you not remember, 
that you are imprisoned? Will you leave the prison? 
Will you fly ? ” 

“ Will the prisoner fly ? What a question ! ” said 
Theodoras, keeping on his way up the steps. 

u In Heaven’s name — brother — remember, that it is 
Peter’s will — remember, that you will make me miserable 
— I gave you a drink of water — and you repay me thus ! ” 


202 


The Last Athenian. 


“ You are mistaken, Clemens. When you hastened after 
water for one perishing with thirst, it was not with the 
hope of repayment — ” 

“ But you will make me wretched.” 

“Bah, I do not know you, if you will he wretched for 
what you have done this evening, when we meet a year 
hence. Loose my arm, brother ! Peter’s will is stronger 
than your muscles, but it is my will which shall fight 
Peter’s will and all others’ like his. See, Clemens, how 
easily I conquer you.” 

Theodorus lifted Clemens in his arms and bore him up • 
the steps. He then replaced his burden on its own feet. 

“ I would willingly carry you farther, much farther 
hence ; but it were better you should follow me of your 
own free will. Oh, that you may one day do this ! How 
farewell, my brother ! ” 

Theodorus departed without further resistance from any 
one. 

Coming out upon the street he met a carriage, accompa- 
nied by two mounted torch-bearers. 

“ Boom for the proconsul of Achaia ! ” shouted the torch- 
bearers to the knots of people. When the equipage 
reached the Double gate, the challenge of the legionary 
posted there was answered with : 

“ The proconsul of Achaia’s carriage.” 

So the people knew that the proconsul had left the city. 
Bishop Peter and Chrysanteus the archon had each been 
informed that he was summoned by important business to 
Corinth. 

Before the proconsul left Athens, he had tried, in the 
bishop’s presence, the Athanasians seized in the chalk pits 
near the pillar field, had found them guilty of the crime of 
which they were accused, namely, the secret service of God 
according to their custom and doctrine ; and, following an 
edict published by the emperor Constantius, had signed 
their death-warrant. 


The Last Athenian. 


203 


When Charmides, about midnight, directed his steps 
homeward, he found outside his door a slave, who held by 
the bridle a saddle horse, the proconsul’s well known Cappa- 
docian Achilles. The slave handed Charmides a letter, 
which the latter read by the light of the vestibule lamp. 
It ran as follows : 

“ Annaeus to Charmides. May the propitious fates 
ordain, that this letter meet its owner’s eye and be gra- 
ciously received b} T him. The good Lysis begs you to be 
welcome to the villa. Your bed is made with downy pil- 
• lows. The sweetest dreams that ever went forth from the 
ivory gate to rejoice a sleeping world, are ordered to be 
present around your couch. When the star of morning 
opens his eye, it will find Charmides and Olympiodorus, 
Demoniax and Palladius, Myro and Praxinoa, all fresh, 
beaming and joyous, assembled around the poor Annaeus 
Domitius, as a body guard against the cares, which pointing 
at his proconsular insignia, imagine themselves entitled in- 
cessantly to suck his blood.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE TRAGEDY. 

The Homoiousian populace swarmed through the streets 
during the night, and in crowds followed the scattered mil- 
itary detachments, who roved through the quarter till dawn 
of day, seeking out and arresting the most respectable 
members of the heretical church. 

Many of these had already left their houses. Their party 
was organized. In the gray of morning more than a thou- 
sand followers of the Council of Nice and of Athanasius 
stood under arms in the suburb Piraeus. As many as could 


204 


The Last Athenian. 


escape thither had assembled with their wives and children. 
They fortified themselves in one of the roughest and most 
hilly quarters of the harbor-city. A number of sailors from 
the Alexandrian vessels lying in the harbor had joined 
them. Here was the chief force of the Homoousians. 

Of the Athanasians dwelling in Colyttus, another hand 
less in numbers, had gathered upon the top of the hill that 
gives its name to the quarter. The hill was a labyrinth of 
narrow streets, winding between high, dirty houses, inhab- 
ited by the poorer classes. The patrols who, strengthened 
by crowds of people, had pressed into this part of the city 
during the night, had been received with stones cast from 
roof and window, and were compelled to retreat, their errand 
unaccomplished. 

At dawn the Homoiousians renewed their attack upon 
this band. Peter had ordered against them a hundred le- 
gionaries. These formed only the nucleus of the assailing 
column, composed principally of a fanatical mob. 

The same shouts, heard the evening before, were now the 
storming party’s battle cry. “ Death to the heretics ! 
Death to the poisoners ! ” 

Those attacked cried in answer, u Death to the heretics ! 
Death to the lying Christians ! ” 

On both sides women and children fought by the side of 
the men. On both sides the prisoners taken were literally 
hewn in pieces. The despair of the Athanasians strength- 
ened their inferior numbers. The cowardly legionaries 
gave ground time after time. But the Homoiousian rabble 
stormed on the wdlder after every repulse. 

The sun came up only to hide himself behind a cloud. 
The morning sky was of a dull leaden gray, and rain fell at 
short intervals. 

There was now a lull in the strife. 

The Homoiousians bore away their dead and wounded 
through the principal streets ; and this sight poured fresh 


The Last Athenian. 


205 


oil upon the flames. Horrid shrieks of revenge rang 
through the city. A new attack was prepared. The street 
pavement was torn up ; women and children filled baskets 
or, lacking these, their tunics and mantles with stones. 
u Forward ! ” yelled the mob to the brilliant knot of 
soldiers who, gathered about the entrance of a lane, were 
leaning on their lances or binding up their wounds. 

“Why do you tarry? What cowardly wretches! We 
ought to stone them,” screamed the women. 

The soldiers awaited reinforcements. A Centurion had 
sped off to the bishop, to ask for a fresh force. Soon the 
rumor spread, that the palatines were in motion. The 
throng calmed itself now. They would bide the coming 
of these terrible warriors. Those allotted to Athens were 
but a handful of men, but they were picked veterans, chiefly 
tall barbarians — Goths and Alemanni. 

When they at last appeared, marching from the market 
in close column, with spear and helmet glittering high above 
the surrounding crowd, loud shouts greeted them. They 
were commanded by a centurion. Their chief officer, the 
tribune Ammianus Marcellinus, had, with the bishop’s 
approval, given up his command for the day. Meanwhile 
the besieged Athanasians had armed themselves to receive 
the renewed assault. Around the top of the hill heaps of 
stones and tiles were piled ; the unarmed were furnished 
with iron bars, wrenched from doors, — with stakes, kitchen- 
knives, — anything they could find, fit to throw, strike or 
thrust. 

The sun looked from between the clouds, while all the 
lanes, leading up the hill, were filled with the dark, boiling 
mass, which, now that the palatines and legionaries were 
advancing, hastened to renew the strife. The Athanasians 
had united in one of their war psalms, the same that Simon 
once heard from the chalk-pits among the olive hills. Men, 
women and children sang triumphantly. 

13 


206 


The Last Atiieman . 


« ’Twas Zion’s King that stopped the breath 
Of captains and their bands: 

The men of might slept fast in death, 

And never found their hands. 

“At Thy rebuke, O Jacob’s God, 

Both horse and chariot fell: 

Who knows the terror of Thy rod ! 

Thy vengeance, who can tell? ” 

The last tones of the psalm mingled with the war-cry 
of the stormers. The attack was made from all sides, and 
with numbers so overwhelming that a beholder must have 
expected every instant to see the little band of Athana- 
sians trampled under foot. And yet for a moment, the ad- 
vancing multitudes were checked by the murderous rain of 
stones which received them. But it was only a moment, 
for if the foremost hesitated, they had no other choice than 
to rush on again, or, casting themselves prostrate, to be 
trampled on by the resistless, onward -surging mass behind. 

The circle which enclosed the besieged, grew ever nar- 
rower, like an island flooded by the rising sea. 

The palatines, never flinching under the stone-rain, 
though it put many of their number out of the fight, had 
now pressed over every obstacle. 

Resistance was hopeless. The Athanasians saw death 
and martyrdom before their eyes. Parents embraced their 
children, men their wives. Then some hastened against 
the assailants, to die fighting, among their fallen enemies. 
The rest remained among their dear ones, with them to die. 
Children hid their faces in their mother’s bosoms. A few 
clasped their hands in prayer ; others scotfed at their ene- 
mies, crying out ; “ heretics, lying Christians ! ” An old 
man struck up a hymn on the martyr’s crown, and the 
blessedness of those who are called to witness around the 
throne of the Lamb. 

The hand-to-hand combat, ending with the complete vic- 
tory of the Homoiousians, was short, but bloody and 


The Last Athenian. 


207 


accompanied by the most hideous scenes. Many of the tall 
barbarians, who wore the palatine uniform, fell under the 
blows of pikes and iron bars, or died a more ignominious 
death from unarmed hands. 

When the strife was done, murder began ; and it con- 
tinued as long as a spark of life could be found among the 
vanquished. Their bodies were mutilated and torn in pieces 
by the mob; — their heads cut off and stuck upon spears 
and poles, as victorious standards. 

Then rang out over the throng, drunk with blood and 
victory, the cry : 

“ To Piraeus ! ” 

The cry was repeated by a thousand voices. 

Singing and yelling, with their hideous trophies in the 
van, the multitude marched down the hill and took the 
road to Piraeus. 

Peter, who with the Homoiousian priests had taken up 
his head quarters in the cathedral, received news of the vic- 
tory his flock had gained upon Colyttus, just as he was 
ordering two centuries of soldiers to march on Piraeus and 
open the attack upon the main body of the heretics assem- 
bled there. The palatines now received orders to support 
this attack. 

Though the tempest thus rolled off from the city proper, 
the streets were yet far from assuming their accustomed 
quiet aspect. They were filled with people, among whom 
were some of the more respectable families leaving the city 
for their country-seats, or taking their flight to the Acropolis, 
upon whose top not a few followers of the old religion were 
by noon assembled. 

The situation of the heathen at such a time as this was 
alarming. They composed a neutrality alike hated or de- 
spised by both the contending Christian sects. The most 
trifling circumstance might turn against them the same 
madness which caused the Christians to rend one another. 


208 


The Last Athenian. 


While they now picked their way among the roving 
crowds and witnessed the bloody spectacles in which these 
were the actors, they must be deaf to the threatening cries 
which followed them, and meekly endure the insults they 
could not escape. 

The cry : “ to Piraeus ! ” was sounded along, mean time, 
from quarter to quarter by those who bore home the Homo- 
iousians fallen upon Colyttus, and continually summoned 
all eager for the fray to hasten after the main force now on 
the march. Others continued to stroll about the streets, 
awaiting the ringing of the bells, which would announce 
the commencement of Divine service at the Cathedral. 
Upon the open square before it, had stood since dawn, a 
close-packed multitude, who had not in the warlike part of 
the tragedy forgotten the other and more edifying, and who 
preferred to miss the former rather than the latter. They 
would behold this, they would hear Peter, and above all 
they would see once more the holy Simon, murdered by 
heretics. His earthly remains were placed in the choir be- 
fore the altar. The sick and halt wished to touch them, to 
regain their health ; others expected that some miracle 
would be wrought, such as had happened with other martyrs 
in many places in Egypt and Asia ; all hoped to obtain a 
relic of the saint •, — a few hairs of his beard, a nail from his 
hand, or a bit of the bear’s hide, which had covered his 
body in life. 

While this crowd is waiting for the opening of the great 
church doors, — the others having been open all night, but 
guarded by soldiers, admitting none but the bishop’s mes- 
sengers, — the following scene takes place in the neighbor- 
hood of the Acarnanian gate. 

Old Bathyllus, the olive-seller, while his wife Tabitha 
was gone from the cot to milk the goats, had taken his 
basket upon his arm and repaired to the town. The old 
man was to-day sunk in a kind of intoxication of soul at 


The Last Athenian. 


209 


the recollection of what he had passed through during the 
night. Athanasius had been under his roof. Alexandria’s 
lawful bishop, the champion of down-trodden truth, the 
hero of the oppressed church, he who was persecuted by a 
world, — Athanasius had been a guest at his house, had 
eaten at his table, broken his bread, and drunk his wine. 
He had talked to Bathyllus as to an equal, and the two 
hoary heads had discovered that they were children of the 
same year. But what a difference in vigor ! In spite of 
the grey locks and the wrinkled visage, Bathyllus fancied 
that he saw in his guest a youth, and he ascribed this to 
the power of God’s spirit, which needed Athanasius for its 
great work and breathed into him life from life’s fountain. 
They had by lamp-light conversed upon the state of the 
true church at Athens. Bathyllus had enumerated to him 
the men strongest in the faith ; Tabitha the women ; how 
they assembled in secret, to hear the undefiled word, how 
they lived together in concord and mutual tolerance. 
Athanasius had shown that he knew many of those named ; 
he must then have a memory, embracing many hundred 
thousand friends, scattered among every city on earth. 
Then Athanasius had related what had happened to him- 
self during the two days he had passed in the far-famed 
Athens. After his arrival in the city he had not rested, till 
he found himself upon Mars hill, on the very spot where 
the apostle Paul must have stood, when he spake to the 
people of Pericles of the unknown God ; he had wandered 
through all the streets and lanes, and visited both heathen 
and Christians at their homes. He had among paintings, 
flowers and vases, sought out a beautiful philosopher and 
given her a hint of Nazarene philosophy. Despite all this 
he was in no wise tired. He knew that his brethren would 
meet in the chalk pits, and he wished to surprise them with 
his presence, speak to them and exhort them to steadfast- 
ness. When the time came, he repaired with Bathyllus 


210 


The Last Athenian . 


and Tabitha to the assembling brothers and sisters. The 
chalk pits lay, as we know, in the neighborhood of 
Bathyllus’ dwelling. What had happened since seemed to 
Bathyllus like a dream. He had always felt himself won- 
derfully affected by these nightly meetings, forbidden, per- 
ilous and secret, but never so deepty as at this time. He 
recalled the dimly-lighted vault ; the people, looking like 
shadows in the gloom ; the psalms, sung with bated 
breath ; the ripple of surprise which greeted the stranger, 
when he appeared on the speaker’s place ; the heavenly elo- 
quence, which flowed from his lips and caused the ripple to 
die away, till at last astonishment and conjecture took 
voice in the whisper flying from mouth to mouth : “ Athan- 
asius!” He remembered also, that this scene suddenly 
changed; how men with sword and helmet burst in upon the 
congregation, how the lamps were put out and the conster- 
nation increased by the impenetrable darkness, how in the 
press a hand seized his arm, and drew him out of the vault, 
till he stood among his own olive trees under the open, 
star-spangled heaven, and there recognized the man who 
had so miraculously saved him, Athanasius. 

It seemed to Bathyllus a dispensation of Providence, that 
Athanasius had appeared among the faithful in Athens just 
as the persecution broke loose. They needed to be com- 
forted, strengthened, fired, to bear it. The arrest of his 
friends, the pillar-saint’s death, the riot, raging in the city, 
all added their impressions to what already filled his soul. 
He walked in a dream, where transport, peace and fervor 
mingled with an undefined longing. 

Coming a little inside the Acarnanian gate, he was met 
by a throng of men and women. 

“ It is Bathyllus. He comes as if he were called,” cried 
a voice in the throng. 

“ It is he ! It is he ! ” 

The crowd gave a wild shout of joy at the sight of the 
old man. 


The Last Athenian. 


211 


“ Olive-seller and poisoner ! ” 

“ It was he who gave Simon the poisoned food.” 

“No,” cried a woman, “ it was not he — he only prepared 
it — but it was Tabitha, his wife, who gave it to Simon. I 
saw it myself.” 

“Heard ye ? Anastasia herself has seen it !” 

“I saw it myself, I say,” shrieked the same woman’s 
voice. 

“ Heath to the heretics ! We should tear the poisoner in 
pieces ! ” 

“Wait a bit, good folks,” shouted a man. “Let us 
leave this business to the women ! Let the women also do 
something to the honor of God and Homoiousian ! He is 
a fitting opponent for them, this fellow.” 

“ Good, good ! Forward with the women. It will be a 
jolly comedy.” 

“ One against one ! ” yelled a tattered fury, who earlier 
in the morning had taken an active part in the fight at 
Colyttus. “ There is no need of more ; but thumbs down, 
when he has got enough ! Ho you hear ? ” 

“ Yes, if we only see his finger in the air.* But take 
care yourself. Hon’t gape, for he may sling a poisoned 
olive down your throat.” 

This coarse joke was greeted with hideous salvos of 
laughter. 

The fury, who had rolled up the sleeves of her tunic, to 
show her lean arms, which she had dyed in the blood of the 
heretics slain upon Colyttus, now stepped forward, and, 
kicking off her spike-studded wooden sandals, took one in 
her hand as a weapon. 

“ Look out ! ” shrieked she, approaching Bathyllus. “ It 
is not you I am after, but your olives.” 

* It was the custom at the Roman ampitheatre for a vanquished 
gladiator to beg for the people’s mercy with raised forefinger. If 
the spectators wished him to be spared, they held their thumbs 
down ; if not, they held them up. 


212 


The Last Athenian. 


This play upon one of the worn-out jests of fighting 
gladiators, was rewarded with a new salvo. 

Bathyllus had set down his basket at his feet. He stared 
with his dim eyes upon the crowd, which made a ring round 
him ; his lips moved and gave way for the following words : 

“ Brothers in Christ ! I am innocent of the crime of 
which you speak. Heither I nor my wife have poisoned 
Simon.” 

“ You are not standing at the preacher’s desk, now,” 
cried the she-monster. “ Look out ! The first stroke is 
mine.” 

“ Hold ! ” exclaimed a man, springing forward and seiz- 
ing the fury’s arm. “ Let him speak ! You say you have 
not poisoned the saint. Swear this by God ! ” 

“By God the Almighty !” 

“And by his begotten Son, of a like being with the 
Father.” 

“Ho, no ; by the Son, who is of the same , eternal, divine 
being. I swear it by Him.” 

This expression, the very watch-word of the persecuted 
Christian party, roused a storm of frantic cries from the 
crowd. 

“ Do you hear that ? Strike down the heretic ! Strike 
him down, Monica ! ” 

Monica, for so the fury was called, cast her heavy sandal 
through the air, with so good an aim, that it hit Bathyllus 
on the head. Blood dyed his grey locks and ran over his 
forehead. 

He staggered toward the steps of the nearest house. 
A second blow felled him to the earth. In spite of 
Monica’s protests, who wished to reserve the booty to her- 
self, the crowd, who had now seen bl jod, rushed forward 
from all sides, to tear in pieces the fallen man, who, as he 
lay, had clasped his hands over his breast and with fainting 
consciousness was praying Stephen’s prayer for his mur- 
derers. 


The Last Athenian. 


213 


While this was passing, a man, clad in the cloak of a 
Christian priest, approached with hasty step. He had 
heard the wild yells and knew that something terrible was 
impending. How he stood by the side of the fallen, his 
voice rang over the tumult, and his arms repelled the most 
frantic. His sudden resolute appearance and the garb he 
wore, really succeeded in turning the eyes of the crowd 
from their victim to himself. 

The mob looked at the new-comer and recognized a mem- 
ber of the Homoiousian priesthood, the rival of Peter in 
earnest eloquence. They recognized, spite of his pale face 
and starved features, Theodoras. 

“A see what it is,” said he, as he lifted the wounded 
man up on to the steps, and taking off his cloak, placed it 
under his head. “ You seek to murder this man. What 
has he done ? ” 

The momentary silence, which followed this question, 
was broken by a voice out of the throng, 

“He has poisoned the holy Simon. He is a heretic and 
poisoner. He shall die ! ” 

“ Yes, yes ! ” growled the mob in chorus. 

“ Surely, you will not protect a heretic and poisoner,” 
cried another voice. “ That would be curious for an ortho- 
dox priest.” 

“ We execute only justice here,” said a fellow, stepping 
forward out of the crowd. “We have determined that he 
shall die. We wish no harm to you, but if you hinder us, 
then look out for yourself.” 

“ Hinder you ! ” exclaimed Theodoras, placing himself 
before the wounded man to shield him from the crowding 
throng. “ I do not wish to hinder you, since I only wish 
to administer justice. Far from it ! I have always loved 
justice, and participate willingly in every act she enjoins. 
But justice requires order. Ho one should be condemned 
unheard. Where now is the judge ? ” 


214 


The Last Athenian. 


“ Here, here,” answered the mob. “ Here we ourselves 
are the judges.” 

“ Good. The judges are here, the accused is here. But 
where are the accusers and witnesses ? ” 

“ Here, here ! ” 

“ What say you? Ought judges to be also accusers and 
witnesses. Was it this you called justice ? No, my 
friends, this is not justice ; it is murder, and God’s law says : 
“ Thou shalt not kill.” 

“Bah, we have witnesses enough,” exclaimed one of the 
men. “ Where is Anastasia, who with her own eyes saw 
the poisoner’s wife give Simon the deadly food ? Step out, 
Anastasia ! We will show that the people do not condemn 
unheard.” 

“ Bight, Artemon,” said Tlieodorus to the speaker. 
“ You will show that you and the others do not condemn 
unheard, this was what you said ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ That you will not stain your hands with innocent 
blood?” 

“Yes.” 

“ That you are Christians and not wild beasts — is this 
so?” 

“Yes, certainly.” 

“Step forward, Anastasia!” cried the crowd. “For- 
ward with you ! Convince the priest — ” 

“ So that he may hush his talk,” interrupted Monica in 
a shrill voice. 

Anastasia, the widow from Dipylon, stepped hesitatingly 
forward. 

“You are then the witness?” asked Theodorus, meeting 
sharply, Anastasia’s gaze. 

“ Yes.” 

“ What say you ? Speak the truth, for on your word 
depends this poor man’s life. Look at him and say, if you 
wish to have his blood upon your head ! ” 


The Last Athenian. 215 

Bathyllus had opened his eyes. His consciousness began 
to return. 

“ And before you reply, one question further/ ” continued 
Theodorus, on whose sunken cheeks a lively color had 
arisen. “ Have you a child ? ” 

“ Yes, I have a son — ” 

“ Whom you love ? Do you not ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed.” 

“ For whose happiness your mother’s heart has at least 
sometime prayed to God ? ” 

“ Yes, I pray every evening for my child,” answered An - 
astasia with trembling voice, which betrayed a sudden awak- 
ening of kinder feelings. 

“ Do you remember then, what the Eternal says : ‘ I the 
Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of 
the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth 
generation.’ Speak now, what have you seen, which 
entitles you to call this man a poisoner ? ” 

“ I have seen,” replied Anastasia hesitating, “ that his 
wife sometimes carried food to Simon.” 

“ When did you see this last ? ” 

“ At sunset the day before Simon’s death.” 

“ And you saw also that the food was poisoned ?” 

“No, I could not see that.” 

“ Is this all you have to say ? ” 

Anastasia was silent. 

“ Does your conscience say that this testimony is suffi- 
cient to condemn the accused ? Look on him ! Regard 
the old man, who awaits life or death at your words ! Think 
of your son and answer my question ! ” 

Anastasia continued to be silent. She wavered, she 
fought with herself. But when from the crowd behind her 
she heard impatient, threatening cries, and feared that the 
blood-thirsty pack would rush forward and tear their victim 
in pieces, — when she saw the object of their murderous pas- 


216 


The Last Athenian. 


sions, with half unconscious look staring into her face, she 
could no longer withstand the impression of Theodoras’ 
words and her own better nature. 

“ No, no, I cannot take his blood on my conscience. I 
believe that he is innocent — I can witness nothing against 
him — He is innocent — I believe it — here, friends, I believe 
him innocent — and no one shall take his life till they have 
taken mine.” 

So cried Anastasia. Her conscience and her womanly 
instinct were aroused. The madness, which had driven her 
to join the bloodthirsty throng, had vanished. She now 
saw everything with other, clearer eyes. She threw herself 
down by the side of the wounded man and clasped his 
hand. 

Victory began to lean towards Theodoras’ side. It was 
all important to make use of this moment to win it. 

“ Artemon,” said he, “ you who will not condemn any one 
unheard, who will not stain your conscience or hands with 
innocent blood ; see, the witness embraces the hand of the 
accused, and will defend his life with her own. What do 
you say to this testimony ? ” 

“I thought she had seen more,” answered the fellow. 
“ It is very probable that Bathyllus is innocent. I at least 
have not laid a finger on him.” 

Artemon was not the only one in the crowd upon whom 
after-thought and a more humane disposition began to pro- 
duce an effect. But others there were, with whom the 
giddy madness of persecution drowned all thought, all feel- 
ing in thirst for blood; and still others, who were capable of 
at least this reasoning : “ It is impossible that the sentence 
of death we have to-day executed, can be unjust ; it is im- 
possible, for it would be awful. We have been guilty of so 
many atrocities ; we have murdered babes in their mother’s 
arms ; we have not spared the grey hairs of age. If con- 
science should ever ascribe all this to us — no, it would be 


The Last Athenian. 


217 


too much — we must have acted justly — and what we have 
done, has taken place in the name of the Lord, for the 
purity of religion, — and the unity of confession.” 

It was these, who in Theodoras began to fear their own 
conscience. They wished to silence him ; and if they them- 
selves, after this degree of reflection began to be awakened, 
were no longer able to raise a hand against the wounded 
old man, there were others, who would not hesitate to 
strengthen the righteousness of their intentions with a new 
baptism of blood. Therefore they objected, as they crowded 
about Theodoras : 

“ But he is a heretic ! That is enough to merit death. 
The law itself condemns heretics to death when they assem- 
ble for Divine worship. Fifty Athanasians this very day 
according to the law will die under the axe. The sharp 
regulator for himself, and we for ourselves. To-day the 
people dispense justice. We are all witnesses here. He is 
known by all as a stubborn heretic. He swore just now, 
that the Son is of the same being as the Father. That is 
enough ! Get away priest ! Look out for yourself, if you 
hinder us ! ” 

“ You have determined then, that he shall die ? ” 
exclaimed Theodoras - in a voice trembling with emotion. 
t( You who profess the name of Christ, have you no pity ? ” 

“ He is a heretic ! ” 

“ See, he has already bled under your hands ! He is like 
one who lies by the way side, struck down by robbers. 
Christians, I speak not to you, I call upon God, that a 
Samaritan, a heathen might pass by ! His eyes would 
moisten with tears ; he would not ask if the unfortunate 
were a heretic, but would only see in him a brother needing 
help ; he would bind up the wounds you have given, and 
bear the poor man on his shoulders to his house — ” 

“ The priest talks you down with his nonsense, men,” 
interrupted Monica in a sharp tone. Hear ye ? He asserts 


218 


The Last Athenian. 


that we are worse than heathens and Samaritans. Shall 
we bear this ? He asserts that the blood you have on your 
hand there, Timothy, is innocent blood, — that the blood 
which spurted into your face, Alexis, is innocent blood, — 
that the blood, which has dyed these very arms, (Monica 
raised her arms aloft), is innocent blood. And yet it was 
on Colyttus, friends, that I dipped them in the dye-tub, on 
Colyttus, friends, where hundreds of orthodox were killed 
by the heretics ! See ye, friends, see here (Monica pulled 
away the tunic from around her knotty neck), see ye, that 
I have blood upon my neck ? See ye, the wound there ? 
That is the mark from Colyttus, that is the mark of inno- 
cent, heretic teeth, — of a little, devilish, innocent heretic 
young one’s teeth, who tried to bite my neck off, while in 
the name of God and Homoiousian I was dispatching his 
heretic of a mother. On Colyttus, friends, the innocent 
heretics have murdered your fathers and sons. On Colyttus 
the emperor’s own soldiers fought against the innocent her- 
etics, and bore away, after the fight was done, the innocent 
heretic heads on the emperor’s own lances. The emperor 
must be a great malefactor, who persecutes the innocent ; 
and ye must be simple villains, worse than Samaritans, 
heathens and dogs, or this priest is a false priest, a secret 
Athanasian, who deserves death. Are ye cowards, men ? 
Shall old women go on before you ? Is there no one who 
can drive the priest away ? Away with him ! Strike him 
down ! strike him down ! He denies the unity of confes- 
sion, for he defends heretics ! Unity of confession, friends, 
unity of confession, the one universal church, friends ! Away 
with the priest. Strike down the false priest ! ” 

The unity of confession ! This expression for the most 
unhappy error known to history, found itself in the mouth 
of the fury as in all others. Her words had kindled the 
frenzy anew. The most frantic in the crowd rushed for- 
ward to cast themselves upon their victim. They caught 


The Last Athenian. 


219 


hold of Anastasia, who covered the old man with her body, 
and tried to tear her away. Others rushed against Theodo- 
rus, hut powerful and resolute, he sprang time and again 
hack to his post, warded off the blows directed against 
Bathyllus, and fought as if for his own life, alone against 
an overwhelming force of mad men, turned to wild beasts. 

At this moment a horseman, clad as imperial courier, 
galloped along the street. He came from the Acarnanian 
gate. The people did not hear his shout to give room. 
He drove his horse into the mass ; it reared, frightened by 
the tumult on all sides. The rider swore and dealt out 
blows to right and left with the hilt of his sword. Atten- 
tion was directed to him. Theodoras availed himself of 
this moment. The door of the house, on whose steps this 
scene had taken place, was closed but not locked. It flew 
open at the pressure of his hand. Theodoras seized Bathyl- 
lus under the arms and drew him into the vestibule. Anas- 
tasia’s passive resistance, and Artemon’s dubious conduct, 
who, while he caught hold of Bathyllus, knocked down 
those standing nearest, facilitated this sudden act. When 
the rider had passed, the priest and the heretic were gone, 
and the door barred behind them. 

The bells of the cathedral began ringing, calling to the 
worship of God. The mob, which otherwise had doubtless 
stormed the house, must now take their choice. The wild- 
est, with Monica at their head, strove to burst open the 
door; but the great majority dispersed, hastening away 
that they might not be too late for church. One more fruit- 
less attempt against the door, and with some curses the rest 
departed. 

Divine service called together as many Homoiousians as 
the cathedral could hold. But this was only a paltry hand- 
ful in comparison with the masses in motion. About the 
same time the scene just described took place in the vicin- 
ity of the Acarnanian gate, the regular troops supported by 


220 


The Last Athenian. 


a great multitude of the populace, had made an attack upon 
the Athanasians fortified in Piraeus. This was so vigor- 
ously repulsed, that the commanding officer requested, in 
order to renew the assault with any prospect of success, to 
be reinforced with another century from the four that, 
drawn up under the tribune Pylades near the cathedral, had 
not yet taken part in the fight. Pylades dispatched the 
century as requested, but with orders not to recommence the 
attack. They were to confine themselves to surrounding 
the quarter occupied by the Athanasians, in order to pre- 
vent them from receiving reinforcements, which might put 
them in a position to assume the offensive. This watchful 
attitude was to he maintained till towards evening, when it 
was the bishop’s intention to draw up the Homoiousian 
masses and arm them from the arsenals. He would then, 
followed by his priests, make a decisive assault in person, 
with the whole force of the orthodox, organized and 
massed. 

On account of this order the pugnacious mob, which had 
streamed down from the city to Pirseus, was dismissed. 
Appeased with the prospect of a fight in the evening, it 
marched back to the city, recruited by the rabble of Pi- 
raeus, and bearing in the van its horrid trophies from Colyt- 
tus. A dire sight was this host, as it rolled along between 
the half-fallen walls that unite Athens with its port. 
Psalms and ballads were screamed in turn, and high above 
this uproar rang out the never tiring cries : “ Death to the 
heretics, the poisoners ! ” 

But among these cries, others now began to he heard, 
raised at first by a few voices, then by many, and at last 
rivaling the former : 

“ Death to the heathen dogs, the idolaters ! ” 

“ Down with the enemy of Christianity ! Revenge on the 
arch-heathen ! Chrysanteus has blasphemed Christ ! Re- 
venge on the arch-heathen! ” 


The Last Athenian. 


221 


The events which occurred on the march to the city, indi- 
cated that new elements had joined themselves to those 
already in action. The multitude began to plunder. Mer- 
chants’ booths, erected in the long porticoes on both sides 
of the way, were broken into and emptied by the defenders 
of the faith. 

Piraean street, as we have said, opened on the market 
place. A dull, heavy sky lay to-day over that beautiful and 
memorable spot. Its colonnades and statues seemed to 
long for annihilation, — that annihilation, which is thought 
to be perfect, when the form becomes dust and the dust is 
scattered by the winds of heaven. 

They were nothing more than ghosts of a time gone by, 
and possessed nothing in common with the human beings — * 
the dark, troubled waves now rolling towards them. 

The disciples of Zeno had assembled, as was their wont, 
in the portico of the Painting gallery. In the midst of 
the storms which howled through the world and shook its 
corner-stones ; in the midst of the terrible conflict between 
the masses, who offered the good gifts God had given men, 
reason and will, on the altar of an idol, named Faith, — the 
baptized Moloch, called Confession, — to be drifted will-less, 
hither and thither by the awful passions of themselves and 
others ; — in the midst of this, a few men and youths assem- 
bled about an old Stoic philosopher to listen to words on 
moral self-government, the will’s mastery over earthly de- 
sires and earthly fear, the capacity of the human soul to be 
ennobled by its own power, and through virtue become a 
mirror of the peace and harmony of God’s spirit. 

It was these teachings, which wafted greatness through 
Paganism, which filled Plutarch’s gallery of heroes with 
a wealth of sublime figures, — a wealth gathered from only 
two Mediterranean lands ; yet so great, that the first thou- 
sand years of Christian culture, embracing many peoples, 
seem in comparison, but a single barren year. 

14 


222 


The Last Athenian. 


While the Homoiousian mob surged by, the market 
echoed with many cries, among them these : “ Death to 

the idolators, — the heathen, — the enemies of Christianity.” 
AT stone-rain dashed against the market-statues ; here 
and there dark crowds crawled up the pedestals, and the 
next moment the statues they bore were crushed beneath 
strokes of clubs and iron bars ; but strange enough, the 
heathen-men in the Painting gallery were not an object 
for this madness; the rabble were content with hurling 
insults at them. Their calmness could hardly have been 
mighty enough to make itself felt upon the fanatical horde, 
burning for pillage and murder; still there was among 
the rabble of that day, the Athenian rabble, a traditional 
respect, a coy regard for the iron men in Stoa. The mob 
poured into all the streets leading from the market. The 
strongest throng pressed into Tripod street, where Cliry- 
santeus’ house was situated. 

A man, who had long paced up and down before the 
Odeum of Pericles, hurried away as the mob ai3proached. 
He hastened to Pylades, and told him all he had seen and 
heard. Soon after the same man rode away on horseback 
through the Double-gate. 

He was at least the tenth messenger who, during the 
forenoon, had been dispatched by Pylades to Lysis villa. 

Pylades had commenced his course as the freed son of 
one of Annaeus Domitius’ slaves. After choosing the mili- 
tary profession, he had, under the auspices of Annaeus, risen 
quite rapidly to the position he now filled. His character 
was suited to the times, and promised him a brilliant career. 
In the mean time he had united his fate with Annaeus 
Domitius, till like a ripe apple it should drop from the tree 
that bore it. That ripe time had not yet come. Pylades 
entertained great expectations of Annaeus Domitius’ future,* 
and almost boundless ones of his own. For the present he 


The Last Athenian. 223 

was a tool, on whose temper and capacity the proconsul 
could rely. 

The imperial courier, whose arrrival at Athens we have 
witnessed, betook himself to Annaeus Domitius’ palace, but 
as quickly left it, accompanied by the proconsul’s trusty 
waiting slave on horseback. He had arrived through the 
Acarnanian gate, and a few moments afterward left Athens 
through the Double portal. 


CHAPTER XIV. 
the tragedy . — ( Continued.) 

Need proves the friend. Charmides had stood the proof 
to which his friend the proconsul had subjected him. He, 
Charmides, had actually mounted the Cappadocian Achilles, 
and in the small hours of the night ridden out to Lysis’ 
villa, to console the afflicted Annaeus Domitius. 

On his arrival the most profound silence hung over the 
villa. The tender genius of sleep waved there his poppy 
sceptre. The guests slumbered, each within his door, in 
the long aula’s portico. Even the deeply afflicted man 
enjoyed the longed-for rest, as a waiting slave assured 
Charmides. It would have been atrocious to disturb him. 
Charmides allowed himself to be shown to the bed-chamber 
allotted him, where he also was quickly sunk in dreams. 
He dreamed of Rachel and Hermione, of bloody street- 
fights, of unlucky casts of the dice, of creditors and sui- 
cide. 

When the morning star arose, the most lively activity 
prevailed in the kitchen department. About a couple of 
hours after, Charmides was awakened by the tones of sweet 
music. With this, chimed in from the next room the 


224 


The Last Athenian. 


voice of Praxinoa, scolding the slave who was dressing 
her hair. While Charmides was listening to these sounds 
and cursing his wretched dreams, slaves presented them- 
selves, who bore him to the bath Annaeus Domitius had 
ordered for his guest. The bath was excellent, the water* 
just right as to temperature, and mingled with exquisite 
perfumes, and the professors of shampooing were of that sort 
who could give to an old man’s limbs the elasticity of youth. 
Charmides felt himself renewed under their hands, and ca- 
pable of all possible epicurean exploits. From the bath he 
was carried to a room where artists of every kind awaited 
him, — artists of the razor, the comb and the toilet-pencil. 
He was silent, and calmly resigned himself to the blind 
powers of his fate. They executed their work admirably. 
The razor was plied by the lightest hand ; the locks soft- 
ened with ambrosia and arranged a la Phoebus Apollo ; 
the toilet-pencil’s strokes heightened the glance of the eye ; 
and then Charmides was put into a tunic and sandals, and 
shown into the assembly room. 

He was awaited here by the other guests, who had each 
undergone similar manipulations. They could not there- 
fore be otherwise than fresh as the dawn. Consolation was 
already at work. Charmides heard before reaching the 
room laughter and glad voices. 

A circle beginning so early in the morning, was some- 
thing unusual and piquant. All present appeared in morn- 
ing toilet, those of the ladies being distinguished by their 
transparency. The ladies were of two kinds, the real and 
the improvised. The real were Myro and Praxinoa; the 
improvised were two young Syrian slaves, whom the femin- 
ine tunic and their own locks arranged after the latest fash- 
ion, became excellently. During the conversation there 
was manifested between these different kinds of ladies not 
a trace of jealousy, but on the other hand many of strong 
sympathy and very intimate confidence. And if no dis- 


The Last Athenian . 225 

cords from this source interrupted the gladness, whence 
should they come ? 

We know that the day was lowering, hut had the morn- 
ing sun shone with its brightest effulgence, it would have 
been hard for a single ray to pierce the thick tapestry which 
covered the windows of the hall, lighted by the festive 
gleam of lamps. 

Neither was there any one in the company, Annseus 
Domitius possibly excepted, who, after two or three hours 
had flown, clearly recollected that it was broad day without. 
It was not only the lamps that deceived, but the lively 
treacherous wine, with which the flower-wreathed cups 
were diligently filled. 

The conversation grew naturally more spirited, more 
sparkling. Charmides had opened it with a yawn, the last 
trace of a night passed in unpleasant dreams : Olympiodo- 
rus with a poetical effusion on the blush of dawn, especially 
that which shone upon the ladies’ cheeks. 

Annseus Domitius, bowed by the cares of State, was not 
ungrateful for the guests’ endeavors to divert his thoughts. 
His mirth' grew with the others. We will here remark, 
that among temperate people Annseus Domitius was pro- 
consul, patrician and Roman ; even his young bosom-friend, 
Charmides, remembered him as Annseus Domitius, the 
satyr, only when befogged with drink. But such an one 
there was, wanting only a fitting opportunity and suitable 
surrounding to cast off his mask and appear in all his gid- 
diness. Under the courtier was concealed the natural man, 
which, when let loose, vented itself in the rawest, most 
absurd, most licentious jollity. 

In the mean time the messengers, sent by Pylades to 
the villa, were received by a slave, and the cipher they 
brought, handed in to the proconsul, who read it, rubbed 
out the writing with his stylus, drank and joked, not a 


226 The Last Athenian. 

trace of serious thought remaining upon his fat, shining, 
smiling face. 

He drank, tasted goblets for Myro and Praxinoa, 
laughed, told love-stories and jested the more coarsely, the 
more wine and merriment affected the spirits of his 
guests. 

The red, which colored his cheeks, spread gradually over 
his forehead and painted his bald crown with a warm cinna- 
bar hue. His head resembled a ripe, swollen grape. But 
this precursor to the faun’s quick appearance did not 
betray itself, until the other members of the party began 
to assume a freedom in speech and deportment, for which, 
had they possessed the paltriest remnant of modesty, the 
lights should have been put out. 

The music, executed by unseen artists, seemed to follow 
the inspirations of the spirit, animating the company. In 
the beginning, sweet and languishing, it grew ever livelier. 
Myro, Praxinoa and the Syrian slaves, who were dancers 
by profession, seized by the rhythm, sprang up and floated 
about each other in the dance, which united graceful 
motions of the bayadere with the bacchante’s wild passion. 

The young men, who reposing on their sofas watched the 
dance, could now no longer withstand the desire to join in 
it. By a secret known only to the proconsul and the un- 
seen serving spirits of the feast, the music was dependent 
upon his will. It played up Calabis, the Hellenic Cancan, 
a dance in which Athenians seldom indulged, except on 
occasions like this. Annaeus, throwing off the garland of 
roses, which had hitherto ornamented his bald pate, and 
donning an ivy wreath, joined with the rest. He balanced 
before Praxinoa. Silenus was complete. His powerful 
belly seemed, instead of being an incumbrance, to serve 
him as an inflated bladder serves the swimmer. He hopped 
on his heels, laid his hands over his paunch, snapped his 
fingers, was inexhaustible in burlesque movements, uniting 


The Last Athenian . 


227 


them with an agility, an assumed seriousness and an 
attempt at grace, whose ensemble provoked the wildest mer- 
riment, and melted the whole company in one ringing 
laugh, that caused the dance for a moment to stop. An- 
n£eus assumed a mien of comic anger, made as if he had 
been offended, threw himself upon a sofa, wiped his sweat- 
ing crown, and confined himself after this to being a spec- 
tator. 

During all this, his thoughts had only occasionally been 
absent from Athens, and the events there transpiring. The 
messages which Pylades forwarded, enabled him to follow 
step by step the development of events. The later it grew 
in the forenoon, the more difficult it became for him, in 
spite of wine and society, to control his impatience, rising 
to real uneasiness, and this although he knew that Pylades 
had planned all in the best possible manner. 

Pylades’ last letter contained the following quieting 
words : 

“ The bishop has approved my proposition to let our arms 
rest at Piraeus until evening. The mob is thus at our dis- 
posal. Our men are mixed in the crowd, and cannot fail to 
march quickly back to the city. Chrysanteus is at his 
house, which he has opened for many Athanasians. This 
will be a new reason for what in all probability will hap- 
pen.” 

These words had, as we remarked, a quieting effect upon 
Annaeus Domitius. But he still feared that the prepared 
blow would be dealt too late ; and too late it would cer- 
tainly be, when Peter, after divine service, had his hands 
empty and could send out his priests as self-appointed lead- 
ers of the multitude. These would undoubtedly ward off 
the danger from Chrysanteus’ house and direct the mad- 
ness of the mob to other quarters. 

After the pleasures of the dance came those of the 
table. The archimagirus, or chief cook of the villa, had 


228 


The Last Athenian. 


developed a talent which conduced to hold the company’s 
humor at the point it had reached. The very dice which 
were brought on with the dessert, were thrown off the 
board by the wanton conversation. The guests were 
served by chosen slave boys, whose long locks Olympiodo- 
rus preferred to the napkin, when between the courses he 
dried his hands, on which perfumed water had been poured. 
The conversation was not only wanton but godless. In 
vain Annaeus Domitius, with an attempt at seriousness, 
reminded them that he was a catechumen, that they should 
spare his religious feelings and theological convictions ; 
they laughed at the Christians’ “ three-headed God” 
equally with the gouty old Zeus. Their scoffs knew no 
bounds ; and had Olympus still owned a thunderbolt, this 
wild blasphemy must have called it down upon their 
heads. 

They mocked at the stupid faith in the soul’s salvation, 
and praised the wise doctrine which bids us live, while we 
live. Nine sat at the table ; they called for the tenth, the 
skeleton. And the skeleton, which was in readiness, 
because, when the guests so desired, he should never be 
lacking in a v T ell-conducted and hospitable house, — the 
skeleton was brought in and given a place among the 
guests on one of the downy sofas at the table. They 
crowned him with garlands, placed a cup to his mouth and 
mocked him, because he could not drink. 

During this scene the butler entered, whispered some- 
thing in his master’s ear, and withdrew. 

Annaeus Domitius arose, took a ladle and struck it 
heavily against the great bowl standing in the middle of 
the table among the profuse trifles of the dessert, until by 
means of the infernal ringing he at last succeeded in gain- 
ing the ear of the revelers. 

He laid aside the ivy wreath, assumed an expression of 
gravity and said : 


The Last Athenian. 


229 


u Children, 1 just spoke a word upon theological convic- 
tions. The word was seriously spoken, too seriously to be 
other than an unnoticed stranger among the roguish, winged 
cupids, which flutter from your lips. I love gladness, my 
children, but forget not, that I am a catechumen. I myself 
am reminded of this by the entrance of this lean, calm, 
silent guest, whose fleshless brow you have crowned with 
the roses of the meadow ; to whose mouth, which death had 
sealed but corruption re-opened, you have carried the foam- 
ing goblet. He is silent, yet speaks in a double tongue. 
To you, children of the world, he says : 1 sport, while time is 
yours, for ye shall sometime be as hollow-eyed, fleshless, 
cold and empty as 12 To me his speech is another. Those 
empty cavernous eyes cast glances, which ask me : 1 What 
do you here ? 7 My children, this question, addressed to a 
catechumen, is upbraiding and threatening. It terrifies me 
not, but it compels me to depart. I respect gladness and 
acknowledge her royal rights. I acknowledge them even 
while she rages as a tyrant. I acknowledge them, but like 
Poetus, leave the council-chamber till she again wields her 
scepter with a sobered hand. Rather than rebel, I depart. 
In doing so I appease alike my catechumenic feelings and 
mjr theological convictions. I go, but to return when the 
conversation, which now seems to me male prcecinctum, 
ill-girdled, has arranged her tunic in more modest folds. 
It is in this way I solve the great problem which I have 
made the subject of a life’s investigation, how to combine 
the joys of life with a catechumen’s duties, how to observe 
the requirements enjoined by my faith, — the same faith, 
which his great and holy majesty, Constantius Augustus, 
my emperor and master, so warmly confesses, and which 
therefore ought to stand high above every cavil, — how I 
say, to combine these duties with the enjoyment of such 
charming society as your own.” 

Annaeus Domitius had finished. He emptied his goblet, 
and with a graceful gesture, withdrew. 


230 


The Last Athenian. 


“ By Bacchus ! a masterly pretext for going out and tak- 
ing a vomitive ! ” exclaimed Charmides. 

“That is the reason!” “Well guessed!” “Right!” 
cried the others. 

“ My dearest Myro,” continued Charmides, “ when he 
spoke of an ill-girdled tunic, he could not have had any 
reference to yours ? ” 

“No, he referred to Praxinoa’s,” exclaimed Olympio- 
dorus ; “ Praxinoa, you do not understand at all the art of 
arranging your tunic ; I should like to teach you both the 
more and the less modest folds, so that hereafter you can 
distinguish between the two and thus avoid wounding either 
a catechumenic feeling or a theological conviction.” 

“ Praxinoa,” cried Charmides, “ Do not take Olympio- 
dorus as teacher. His art in arranging a tunic is probably 
no greater than in writing epigrams. Hang a tunic over 
our friend, the skeleton, and let him show the more and 
less modest folds upon him ! ” 

“Pshaw, what a jest ! ” ejaculated Myro. “Palladius, 
give me the cup and let me wash it down in wine.” 

“ Here ! Your health, lady ! Charmides, what is the 
time ? ” 

“ The time ? Who talks about time here ? Leave that 
word to mortals. It is unfitting us, immortal gods. We 
dwell in Olympus — 

“ ‘ The seat of gods; the regions mild of peace, 

Full joy and calm eternity of ease. 

There no rude winds presume to shake the skies, 

No rains descend, no snowy vapors rise ; 

But on immortal thrones the blest repose; 

The firmament with living splendor glows.’ ” * 

“ My friends,” continued Charmides, stretching himself 
upon a sofa, “let us agree that we are gods and more 
blessed than gods. It is, after all, but a matter of agree- 
ment. Why then should we not make ourselves blessed 
and immortal ! ” 


* Odyssey. Pope’s translation. 


The Last Athenian . 


231 


“ Agreed ! A glass for our immortality ! ” 

“ In our capacity as gods we are by no means inquisitive, 
my friends. We might otherwise perhaps inquire, how 
does it look at this hour in Athens ? But I presume that 
no one of us will fall so plump from Olympus down to the 
wretched earth. So then, let us drink to Athens. May it 
vanish from the earth ! ” 

“ And take our creditors with it ! ” 

“ Athens ? What is Athens ? Here is to the world ! 
May it fall to atoms ! May it vanish from under our feet ! ” 
“ Myro, here is an excellent place on the sofa at my side ! 
Lie here, while the globe vanishes under our feet. Unfor- 
tunately, Myro, it is not precisely you, I wish in my bosom, 
as I now float in ether over an annihilated world. But this 
is of no consequence. Out with the lamps ! ” 

“ I inquire once more, what is the time,” stammered 
Palladius, tipsy as the rest, “for since I have become a 
god, I wish to be an orderly god, with good domestic rules 
and habits, and put out my lamp at midnight, never 
before and seldom after. What is the time, I say ? ” 

“ It is past midnight.” 

“ Well, out with the lamps ! Where is Praxinoa?” 

“No impertinent questions ! ” replied Olympiodorus. 
“ But the skeleton will be found in his place, Palladius. 
The midnight hour is past. I am sleepy. Out with the 
lamps ! ” 

“No, no, let us dance. Why has the music ceased? 
Play up Calabis, Calabis ! ” 

“Who wants Calabis ? ” 

“ The skeleton.” 

“ Give me a fresh garland ! ” 

“ Take the skeleton’s.” 

“Calabis! I will balance to my young Lyrian. Cal- 
abis ! ” 

“ Fill my goblet ! ” 


282 


The Last Athenian . 


* Take the skeleton’s ! 99 
u Slaves, out with the lamps ! ” 

“ Slaves, play up Calahis ! ” 

“ Out with the lamps ! ” 

“ Calabis, Calabis 1 99 

After these cries, and the conversation continually becom- 
ing more confused had been kept up in this manner for a 
while, Annaeus Homitius returned to his guests. He had 
received in the aula an imperial courier. The letter he 
brought, the proconsul of Achaia now bore in his girdle. 
There lay at that moment in his face and whole being some- 
thing which had not been visible there before, something 
the very opposite of the just vanished Silenus. 

“ My friends,” said he, “ fate is stronger than my body- 
guard. My official duties call me to Athens, where a hor- 
rible tumult deluges the streets with blood — ” 

“ Oh ! let the Christians rend each other ! 99 interrupted 
one of the guests. 

“ Each other ? Yes, each other and you ! The city 
resounds now with the cry : death to the idolaters 1 99 
11 Let them cry ! 99 
“ Let Athens burn ! ” 

“ Let them murder our creditors in peace ! What mat- 
ters it to you ? 99 

“ They cry also : death to the J ews, who crucified our 
God ! ” 

“ Heath to the J ews ! Heath to the whole human 
race ! ” 

“ Out with the lamps ! ” 

“ Calabis, Calabis. Ye slaves ! 99 

The only one in the company who lent the proconsul his 
ear, was Charmides. He sprang up from the sofa, exclaim- 
ing: 

“ A horse and mantle ! I will go with you to town.” 

“ Friends,” called out Annaeus above the din, “ it is not 


The Last Athenian. 


233 


fitting for the proconsul of Acliaia to let Athens burn, if he 
can quench the brand, even with his own blood. Athens 
the lordly, the memorable ! Athens, nurse of science and 
art. Athens, pupil of the emperor’s eye ! My guests, I 
must leave you — come after me to the city — we will there 
continue the feast. There are but two toasts left to propose 
here. Up and seize your cups ! Up, you addled, heedless, 
depraved youths ! Up, every one who still loves the mem- 
ory of our fathers ! The cups, the cups ! Here is to the 
old, eternally young gods ! 99 

“ Hear the catechumen ! The catechumen ! 99 

11 Silence, there is no catechumen here ! 99 cried Annaeus 
Domitius. " The health of the gods ! ” 

He emptied his glass. The drunken guests followed his 
example. Charmides regarded Annaeus with astonishment. 
He knew him well, and immediately perceived from his con- 
duct, his manner, the tone of his voice, that something 
extraordinary had happened or was impending. 

“ The last toast ! The noblest of all ! ” cried Annaeus, 
taking in his arms the huge bowl that stood in the middle 
of the table. “ To the bottom, empty to the bottom for the 
master of the world, the emperor of Rome, Julianus 
Augustus ! 99 

A death-like silence fell, broken at last by Charmides, 
who, seizing Annaeus Domitius by the arm, whispered : 

“ Do you know what you are saying ? Or what has hap- 
pened ? 99 

u Hush, hush ! He is drunk. He is talking our heads 
off! Damnation! The slaves have heard his cry! We 
are lost ! ” 

The guests had suddenly become sober. They whispered 
and cast terrified glances at each other. 

u What ? 99 exclaimed Annaeus. ‘ ■ What means this 
silence ? Do I stand among rebels ? I swear by the name 
of Julian to lay all your heads at my feet, and that before 


234 


The Last Athenian. 


set of sun, if ye hesitate to drink the health of our lawful 
emperor, sanctissima majestas, dominus, Augustus Julianus 
Imperator, pontifex maxim us, pater patriae, restitutor 
orbis ! ” 

He lifted the bowl to his lips, then flung it to the floor. 

At the same moment the door opened and a voice said : 

“ Your horse is ready.” 

“ Here is your sword and rain-cloak.” 

The waiting slaves fastened the sword to their master’s 
girdle and the mantle over his shoulders. He hastened out, 
mounted his Achilles and rode away. 

He was met upon the road by the last messenger P}dades 
had despatched. The proconsul reined in his horse and 
glanced over the tablet. It contained the following words : 

“ A multitude of people are approaching Tripod street as 
I write. They shout that Chrysanteus has blasphemed 
Christ.” 

Annaeus Domitius urged on his horse. 

“ Damn Pylades ! Ten thousand lances in the mob ! 
If I should come too late to save Chrysanteus ! 0, my 

Achilles, if you now had wings ! My accursed bulk ! 
Here goes ; I ride to the consulate or break my neck in the 
attempt.” 

When Annaeus Domitius rode into Tripod street, it was 
filled with people. 

But these observed a silence, which astonished him. 
What does it mean ? Had he come too late ? 

Up on the highest slope of the Acropolis stood a band of 
trembling spectators, Chrysanteus’ fellow-believers. An- 
naeus cursed their cowardice ; they had perhaps, without 
stirring from the spot, seen Chrysanteus’ house stormed, 
himself and his daughter, loved by the heathen, rent in 
pieces by fanatical Christians. And yet a sudden attack of 
a resolute band, storming down from that height, would 
have crushed the crowded mass in the street below. 


The Last Athenian. 


235 


The proconsul had thrown hack his capouch, that the 
throng might recognize him. When he had made his way 
for some distance through it, and approached the archon’s 
house, where the press was strongest, he saw before the 
door a man on horseback, surrounded by soldiers, whose 
spears and helmets glittered over the multitude. The 
horseman was Pylades. 

“ Way for the proconsul of Achaia ! What is the matter 
here ? What means this crowd ! Make way, in the 
emperor’s name ! ” Annaeus cried, raising above his head a 
tablet, whose sculptured and gilded frame proclaimed it to 
be an imperial decree or a government despatch. 

(( Live Annaeus Domitius ! ” shrieked the multitude, for 
the proconsul was Homoiousian and had always striven for 
the good will of the mob. 

“ Live the proconsul of Achaia ! Live Homoiousian ! ” 

These cries were directly followed by others, raised farther 
on along the street : 

“ Out with the heretics ! Death to the heathen ! ” 

The silence of the mob on the proconsul’s arrival, wju. 
only accidental. They had been listening to a priest, who 
had just ceased speaking and gone into Chrysanteus’ house. 

“ Annaeus Domitius ! ” muttered Pylades, when he dis- 
cerned him at a distance. “ He here ? What means 
this ? ” 

But when the tribune made out what the proconsul held 
in his hand, he was seized by a sudden, undefined forebod- 
ing. 

He rode to meet him through the crowd, which in his 
immediate vicinity had become silent at the sight of the 
reverence-inspiring tablet, proclaiming the will of God’s 
annoirited, while at a distance the cry : “ out with the her- 
etics ! ” continued and grew stronger. 

“ Pylades,” whispered the proconsul, seizing the tribune’s 
arm, “ what has happened ? Am I too late ? What have 
they done with Chrysanteus ? ” 


236 The Last Athenian . 

“ Illustrious and noble master, you come, on the other 
hand, too soon — ” 

u Go on, tell me, is he alive ? ” 

“ Our plan at the last moment has been delayed — ” 

“ Delayed ? What plan is delayed ? ” 

“ Ammianus Marcellinus hears the cry of the mob, com- 
prehends its meaning, hastens to the church, by means of a 
deacon, informs Peter — ” 

“ Damn your long circumlocution ! I do not understand 
a word you say. Tell me, is he alive*? ” 

“ Peter orders me here to guard his house. I come, 
while the mob makes a show of storming it. A priest 
accompanies me, speaks to the people — succeeds in bring- 
ing about negotiations. The people in the beginning 
demand the surrender of all the heretics in the house. 
The negotiations are going on at this moment — and we are 
here to protect the archon’s life to the last man — ” 

“ Praised be my lucky stars ! The noble Chrysanteus ! ” 
“ Ah ! ” mumbled Pylades, turning pale, “ I begin to 
understand.” 

“ The negotiations are concluded,” continued Annaeus 
Domitius, raising his voice. “What means this uproar, 
these cries, this gathering ? What has happened during 
mjr absence ? Is this a riot ? Do people dare disturb the 
peace, violate the laws, set at naught the majesty of the 
emperor ? ” 

u Illustrious and noble master ! ” — 

“ I made over, as was my duty, the disposition of the 
troops to the bishop of Athens. Has he made use of them 
to break the peace, instead of preserving it ? Well, it is 
the proconsul of Achaia who, in the end, is answerable for 
the sanctity of the laws and the preservation of imperial 
authority. I resume my command ! This crowd must 
disperse, or be scattered by force. Order shall be reestab- 
lished with the assistance of the officers, the troops, and all 
good citizens. Where are the troops ? ” 


The Last Athenian . 


23 ? 


“ The greater part at Piraeus — ” 

“ What the devil are they doing at Piraeus ? — And the 
rest?” 

“ Drawn up at the cathedral — ” 

“ What the devil are they doing at the cathedral ? Not 
a single man is needed at the cathedral ! Order hither at 
once the whole force posted there, silence the cries, remind 
the people of the riot-act, and chastise the refractory. Py- 
lades,” continued Annaeus Domitius in a low tone, “ to-day 
you found your future — ” 

u Ah — I suppose then — ” 

“ Silence ! ” 

“ I send instantly a centurion for reinforcements.” N 

“ And I go to speak to the archon of Athens.” 

The proconsul descended from his horse and flung the 
bridle to a soldier. At this moment the priest appeared. 
He seemed troubled. As soon as he caught sight of the 
proconsul, his countenance brightened, and he exclaimed : 

“ You come, as if sent by the angel of the Lord, noble 
master ! As you hear, the orthodox require that the 
archon shall give up the heretics, who have found an 
asylum in his house. The answer he has given, is hard 
for me to carry back. He will give up the heretics, but 
only to a lawful, worldly authority, and after the people 
have departed — ” 

The proconsul broke him off shortly : 

“ Are you the negotiator between Chrysanteus and these 
people — ” 

“ Yes ; my most reverend father, the bishop has — ” 

“The negotiator between the archon of Athens and 
these rioters ? ” 

“ Between him and the orthodox, my illustrious master.” 

“ Between a lawful authority and a rebellious mob ? ” I 
swear by God and the emperor, that you shall hang on the 
first tree, as an instigator of the people' and ringleader of 
15 


238 


The Last Athenian. 


the uproar, if you <lo not instantly make off and take the 
pack with you.” 

During this conversation the cries continued : “ out with 
the heretics ! Live the proconsul ! Death to the 
heathen ! ” 

fhe priest stood thunder-struck, and his eyes followed 
Annaeus as he took his way through the vestibule into the 
aula. 

The aula by no means presented that aspect of confusion 
which might have been expected under the circumstances. 
Beneath the portico which sheltered them from the falling 
rain, a numerous company were assembled round Hermi- 
one ; philosophers and rhetoricians belonging to the high 
school of Athens, most of the disciples in 'the Academy, 
the war tribune Ammianus Marcellinus, together with 
some of the most respectable citzens of Athens and their 
families. 

The upper story of the house had been opened to the per- 
secuted Christians, who had found an asylum with Chry- 
santeus. The maid and men-servants of the establishment 
gathered together in the ladies’ court. 

The arrival of Annaeus Domitius created great and pleas- 
ant surprise ; still more his manner. He clasped Chrysan- 
teus, who advanced to meet him, heartily in his arms. He 
then greeted the company, hastened to Hermione and 
pressed her hand to his lips. 

“ And we, who thought you in Corinth ! ” exclaimed 
Chrysanteus. 

“ My noble friends, I should indeed have been there, had 
not a presage — I may well say an inspiration from the gods 
— called me back to Athens. I come at an unhappy, or 
rather, a happy moment. Our Athens, otherwise so calm, 
glad and beautiful, is, I find, in the hands of criminal 
intriguers, wild fanatics. But rest easy, my friends! 
Within an hour, order shall be restored. To you, Chry- 


The Last Athenian. 


239 


santeus, I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude for the 
free city you have opened to these citizens and subjects 
of the emperor, who otherwise w r ould have fallen yictims to 
theologic madness. The times are evil, the theological con- 
tagion goes like a pest through the world; but we do^not 
vainly call on the divine powers for help in our need. My 
friends, I bring you information of great weight. It has 
pleased Providence to call hence his holy majesty, our em- 
peror and master, Constantius Augustus, to the heaven of 
gods and Caesars. Our country has received a new father. 
To-day the master of Rome and of the world is Julian.” 

A universal silence followed these words. Uttered a few 
hours before, no matter by whose lips, they would have been 
high treason and entailed death. They sounded bold, 
awful even now, from the lips of Annaeus Domitius, among 
people, to whose innermost wish they instantly gave reality, 
and who might expect from them life and salvation — who, 
in the events they announced, saw more than their own 
fortune ; a pledge for the peace of the Roman empire, the 
progress of humanity, the victory of truth. It was as if 
every individual heart in this assembly had felt with the 
heart of history the import of the change now accomplished. 
But when the first astonishment was over, they hastened, 
each in his own way, to give vent to the feelings words 
could not express. Chrysanteus and his daughter simply 
exchanged a look, a pressure of the hand ; others embraced, 
and others, more jubilant, shouted aloud. 

The proconsul said at last, turning towards Chrysanteus : 
“ I require now your efficient cooperation in restoring 
order. You are archon of Athens for a purpose. Let us go 
to work at once. Your brothers in the faith are assembled 
upon the Acropolis ? ” 

“ Yes. Shall we arm them ? ” 

“ My idea, exactly.” 

“ I will answer for their orderly and intelligent behavior. 


240 


The Last Athenian. 


They have wrongs to avenge, hut they will leave vengeance 
to the gods and Julian.” 

“ They ? will follow you, their leader — that is enough. It 
is a most excellent coincidence that there is a collection of 
arm^ in Pallas Athene’s temple — ” 

“And that I have the key to the opisthodome, where 
they are kept. I am at your disposal. Shall I hasten 
there ? ” 

“We will go together. To-day I ought to be only your 
shadow, added the proconsul, hinting at the courtier’s 
mockery of Julian, “ for it is your very self who taught 
our emperor the art of war, in the gardens of the Academy. 
Your pupil does you honor. The woods of Germany, the 
kings of the Franks and the Alemanni, bear witness to this. 
Fear not,” said he, turning to Hermione, who held her 
father’s hand and listened to the cries without. “Fear 
not, my noble Hermione. We go to silence these yelling 
throats. Ammianus Marcellinus, accompany us- to the 
Acropolis, before you resume command over the pala- 
tines ! ” 

Annaeus Domitius left the aula, in company with Chry- 
santeus and Ammianus Marcellinus. 

Outside the door, the mob still crowded, cried and swayed. 
Their impatience increased. They thought the negotiation 
took up altogether too much time. The priest, who had 
hitherto conducted it, had assured them, in order to escape 
with a whole skin, that the proconsul had now taken the 
matter in hand ; after this he smuggled himself off. Py- 
lades and his soldiers guarded the door, and the mob had 
not yet assumed a threatening attitude towards the armed 
force. Meanwhile, the mass was reinforced every moment 
by new bands, who roved the neighboring quarters, pillaging 
and shedding blood. One of these gangs, which had in 
vain sought entrance into the densely-packed cathedral, was 
led by the hideous Monica, the fury from Cotyttus. 


The Last Athenian. 


241 


The sight of Chrysanteus at Annaeus Domitius’ side 
caused a momentary silence. All wondered what it could 
mean. During this time the proconsul exchanged a few 
words with Pylades. The soldiers opened a path for them 
across the street. The cry : “ live the proconsul ! ” was 
mingled with : “ death to the arch-heathen ! They had 
not many steps to go before reaching the slope of the 
Acropolis. On this side a steep flight of steps led up to its 
plateau. They reached this without danger, it only cost 
the proconsul a few drops of sweat. 

Some moments after, the Homoiousians, who crowded 
Tripod street, heard a loud huzza from the Acropolis. The 
cry: “Julianus Augustus,” raised by a thousand voices, 
men, women and children, fell with blighting weight upon 
the mass below. At the same moment the first columns of 
the legionaries, advancing from the cathedral, appeared at 
the end of the street. They took up its whole width. The 
mass of people were pressed backwards or up into the por- 
ticoes. Pylades formed his troops in a long line. Armed 
bands were seen charging down the slopes of the Acropolis. 
The indefatigable proconsul again appeared, mounted his 
Cappadocian Achilles, rode to the middle of the front, 
stretched out his hand with the imperial tablet, and 
addressed the soldiers : 

“ Romans ! Our master and emperor, Constantius, has 
gone to his fathers. His only surviving relative, the emi- 
nent, renowned Julian, whom our comrades in arms, the 
Gallic legions, have proclaimed emperor, is the only lawful 
ruler of our empire, confirmed in his dignity by the unani- 
mous approval of the Roman senate, people and legions. 
He stands to-day in New Rome, the city of Constantine, 
surrounded by all the legions of the West, and by a people 
intoxicated with joy. Comrades, let us join in the world’s 
universal jubilation ! Hail Julianus Augustus ! Dominus 
Julianus Augustus ! ” 


242 


The Last Athenian. 


Pylades sprang off his horse and bent the knee. The 
centurions and soldiers followed his example. Swords and 
shields were raised on high. All along the line rang out 
the cry : “ Dominus Julianus Augustus ! ” 

The forces marching down the Acropolis shouted in tri- 
umph. Then came the Christians’ turn. They needed 
only to collect themselves a little, get a clear comprehension 
of the situation, as it now presented itself, be sifted from 
the murderers and wildest champions of the faith who vol- 
untarily crept away, when they, even they, with all their 
might, joined in the cry of hail. All government is of God, 
and the government bears not the sword in vain. 

The thirst for heretic blood vanished at once. Lust for 
pillage and private hate, clad in the robe of orthodox theol- 
ogy, found it best to sneak off and hide itself, wherever it 
could. The throng, just now so frantic, was scattered like 
chaff before the wind. Some hastened home, locked them- 
selves in their rooms and prayed God for the true faith, 
now threatened by a frightful future. Others — and these 
the most numerous — were immediately amazed at them- 
selves and could not conceive how the little i, which sepa- 
rates Homoiousian from Homoousian, could have appeared 
to them so great and important. To their eyes it had now 
shrunk to a scarcely perceptible dot ; yes, on a closer in- 
spection, one or two began to think that even the old 
religion and Christianity were by no means so different — 
that the chasm between them was not too broad for a man 
to have one foot on either side, and in this position await 
the future. But the greater portion trembled for the retri- 
bution. The blood of the murdered Athanasians cried from 
the ground ; and whether their brethren in the faith or the 
imperial authorities were their avengers, the avenging 
would be terrible. The bloody trophies from Colyttus had 
fallen from the victors’ hands and now lay scattered about 
the streets. Those who had dyed their hands in heretic 


The Last Athenian. 


243 


blood, now hastened to wash them carefully. As the news 
of Constantins’ death and Julian’s peaceful accession spread 
over the city, it swept away the roving Homoiousian bands ; 
and the patrols of legionaries or armed citizens, that soon 
marched through all the streets, met with no opposition, no 
disorder. 

As soon as Annaeus Domitius had arranged for the post- 
ing of troops throughout the city, and ordered Ammianus 
Marcellinus to take command of the forces in Piraeus and 
restore order there, he repaired, accompanied by Pylades at 
the head of a century of soldiers, to the cathedral. 


CHAPTER XV. 
the tragedy . — ( Continued.) 

The Homoiousians congregated in the cathedral had no 
suspicion of the sudden change that had come over the 
citj^. Important events could occur, so abruptly, that what 
was just now the central point in the day’s life, was the 
next moment outside its circle, and standing like an ana- 
chronism in the new situation. The cathedral had gathered 
in a mass of fanatical, devout or inquisitive Homoiousians, 
and the feelings which brought them hither, had by no 
means cooled under the temple vault. What they had seen 
and heard, what they still saw and heard had, on the con- 
trary, lashed these emotions to a giddy height. 

If one entered the chief portal of the church, he found 
himself in the nave, bounded by imposing pillars taken from 
antique temples, and united by arches rising towards a 
roof of three cupolas. Over the aisles were the women’s 
galleries, opening out upon the nave by pillared arcades 
running between the columns. In the back ground arose 


244 


The Last Athenian. 


the choir with the altar. In front of this, beneath the 
central dome where the nave and the transept crossed 
each other, was a screen with two desks, one for the reader 
of the evangelists, the other for the preacher. A deep 
gloom filled the vast interior of the church, with the single 
exception of the choir, through whose lofty windows a mass 
of light fell upon the catafalque on which lay Simon stylites. 

About the catafalque were placed censers, from which 
fragrant clouds curled slowly up towards the dome over- 
head. 

The nave, galleries, pedestals, niches and projections on 
the arcades, swarmed with people. Only the choir and a 
spot near the screen were free from the press, being re- 
served to the priests for the performance of holy ceremo- 
nies. 

Not far thence, just opposite the preacher’s pulpit, were 
placed the heretics, doomed to death for worshipping God 
in secret. They stood in a little knot, men and women, 
old and young, rich citizens and poor slaves all together. 
Their arms were bound behind them, and soldiers stood 
around on guard. 

This place had been selected for the heretics, because it 
was to them the preacher intended to direct his discourse, 
and in order that they should continually have before their 
eyes, him whom they were accused of having murdered. 

Their execution was to take place at the conclusion of 
Divine service. 

The eyes of the congregation were divided between this 
group and the corpse on the catafalque. When the clouds 
of incense separated and unveiled Simon’s pallid face, it 
seemed to the orthodox as if his lips moved, to confirm the 
awful accusation against the heretics; as if his countenance 
distorted itself, to terrify the murderers. A miracle was 
expected. It was whispered that Peter would invoke 
Heaven that some such sign might be given for a testimony 


The Last Athenian. 


245 


to the truth of Homoiousion, and for the conversion cf the 
heretics at the eleventh hour. 

The hymns and prayers which opened Divine worship, 
were concluded. Clemens, the young reader, had with 
trembling voice recited to the multitude a Messianic chapter 
from Daniel, and a selection from the Evangelists. Then 
the bishop stepped up into the preacher’s pulpit. 

He spoke first of the doctrine of the atonement, as it 
was at that time received by both the great Christian par- 
ties. By our first parents’ fall death and the devil had 
obtained power over the world. The human race had 
reverted to Satan and his angels, and worshipped them in 
the manifold forms of the heathen gods. God in his wis- 
dom had foreseen this before the world was made, and in 
his mercy had appointed a Savior for mankind. God’s 

intention was unknown to the devil. Christ descended tc 

• 

earth in the shape of a servant, submitted to death in 
order to reconcile God with a blood-offering, submitted to 
the devil in order to redeem with his righteous and sinless 
soul the sinful souls of men. But when he descended into 
hell, it was only to preach for the salvation of heathen 
souls. The devil found himself deceived, outwitted. He 
had sinned against a perfectly righteous soul, against God’s 
own son. On account of this, Jesus obtained power over 
him, and was able to release all who were subject to him. 
So the devil was conquered, and the children of Adam 
saved. 

Erom this the bishop passed on to a description of 
Christ’s person. Erom the apostle Paul’s epistles he 
extracted evidence to the incontrovertible truth of Homoiou- 
sian, to the further confirmation of which he did not hesi- 
tate to use an ingenious argument, for reason is a good gift 
when used only in the service of the prevailing doctrine, 
and not misused in the defence of other interpretations,— 
in which latter case it is to this day darkened, beguiled, an 
instrument of the devil. 


246 


The Last Athenian. 


Peter declared further, that the atonement thus brought 
about is open for all in the bosom of the orthodox church, 
and for him who through faith appropriates the righteous- 
ness of the son of God. The devil is no longer the abso- 
lute prince of this world, but he is still a mighty king, 
incessantly fighting against the Trinity incarnated in the 
church. And he battles with success. Holy writ clearly 
bears witness, that his kingdom towards the end of time 
shall again be the most powerful, when Christ will return, 
conquer it, judge the good and the evil, the orthodox and 
the heretics, and establish the kingdom of a thousand 
years. 

In this contest the devil’s especial weapon is the human 
reason. Into this he breathes a spirit of error, enticing 
men to stray without the potent magic circle of the church. 

Enticed from this, man falls to him. The different inter- 

• 

pretations are his work. Heresy is of him. And Time 
must be near its consummation, for heresy is spreading with 
horrid speed over the earth, antichrist is already come. 
The Book of Creation testifies that the fallen sons of God, 
the evil spirits, approach the daughters of men. Antichrist 
is the son of the devil by an earthly woman. He goes 
about the world, is present at church councils, clothes 
himself in priestly garb, and calls himself with a Christian 
name, Athanasius. 

The preacher was frequently interrupted at the com- 
mencement of his discourse, by tempestuous cries of ap- 
plause and clapping of hands. But these manifestations 
gradually ceased, for Peter’s voice became so penetrating, 
his eloquence so subduing, that he seemed to have borrowed 
the lightning’s glare, and the gloom of the grave, for the 
picture he painted to the assembled multitude of antichrist’s 
progress, and the confusion of the last days. The hearers 
trembled. A thousand pale, terrified faces were directed 
towards the speaker. His mouth was the focus for the 


The Last Athenian. 


247 


gaze of thousands. At the pauses he made, an awful 
silence reigned throughout the place, as in nature, after a 
thunder-clap ; and the people in the gloom of nave and gal- 
lery, seemed turned to stone. 

Clemens, who was near the speaker, had fallen on his 
knees. His tearful eyes were directed towards the fettered 
Athanasians, with looks which pitied their fall, and called 
upon them to return. 

Peter now turned directly to the band of Athanasians. 
He exhorted them to foreswear the devil and the heretical 
errors inspired bjr him ; he hade them reflect that their fate 
would soon he settled for eternity ; that death awaited them 
outside the walls of the church. He seized the hour-glass, 
standing by his side, and reminded them that their sands 
would soon run out, — then it would he too late ! He 
pointed to the distorted figure, lying before the altar, on the 
black-draped catafalque, — to him, whom they had murdered 
— and by his spirit, which now with all the angels, saints, 
and blood-wdtnesses, around the throne of the Lamb, was 
proclaiming the glory of God and the truth of Homoiousian, 
he conjured them to return to the only saving faith. 

As he thus spoke, the manacled heretics muttered to each 
other : “ Courage, courage ! Be strong in the faith ! Sal- 
vation draws nigh ! ” 

“ Don’t tremble, wife,” whispered a man to a woman at 
his side. “ Look at him ! At him by the corner pillar ! 
No fear before his eyes ! He shall witness our victory.” 

By one of the corner pillars to the transept, stood a man 
whose eyes were continually fastened upon the prisoners. 
They recognized Kim as the strange preacher, who had ap- 
peared in the chalk-pit — Athanasius. When Peter spoke, 
it was not to him they listened. From Athanasius’ lips 
streamed words, unheard by all others, but not by them. 
They listened to Athanasius. 

And when Peter exhorted them with loud voice, to de- 


248 


The Last Athenian. 


clare their conversion to Homoiousian, they answered with 
loud voice, a unanimous “ No.” 

This “ no ” was followed by a suppressed murmur from 
the assembled multitude — a murmur of amazement and ter- 
ror at their stubbornness. 

After some moments’ silence, Peter said in sorrowful and 
serious tones : 

“ The Lord will not permit that His faith he blasphemed. 
He holds the stars in His hand, heaven and earth are sub- 
ject to Him, the powers of Nature are His servants. He 
is supreme over death as over life. With miracles has He 
testified to His truth before our fathers, and the power 
which awoke the widow’s son in Nain, which raised Laza- 
rus from the dead, and became a sign in the apostles’ hands, 
streams imperishable, with the Holy Ghost, through His 
church. 

“Believers in Christ, importune God with prayer for a 
miracle, that the souls of these transgressors may be res- 
cued from the way of damnation ! Pray, that I, His un- 
worthy servant, may be the instrument through which His 
glory shall be revealed ! Pray that he, the saint, whom 
these children of Bileam have slain, ma}^ himself bear wit- 
ness to the truth in the presence of his murderers ! Pray, 
as Elias, when he stretched himself three times over the 
dead child, and cried, ‘ Lord, let his soul return into his 
body ! ’ Pray, like him, and our prayers will be answered 
as certainly as those of Elias.” 

He bowed down to pray, and the congregation with him. 
It was still as death in the church. Even the doomed 
prayed — prayed that the dead might raise himself, to hear 
witness to their innocence, and the truth of their perse- 
cuted doctrine. 

When at last Peter arose, it was the signal for the whole 
assembly to lift up their heads. With averted face, and in- 
describable longing, they awaited the result. 


The Last Athenian. 


249 


The priests, clad in their ceremonial robes, gathered 
about Peter and marched towards the altar. They arrayed 
themselves around the catafalque. The oldest presbyter 
bore forward a cross, and erected it at the feet of the 
corpse. The bishop had stationed himself at its head. 

Prom the gallery over the main entrance there arose from 
lips unseen, a solemn, slow-measured hymn. 

Peter folded his arms upon his breast and seemed to 
pray. Then he laid one hand on the forehead, the other on 
the heart of the dead man, raised his eyes on high and 
spoke. 

“Almighty God ! To-day let thine Omnipotence reveal 
itself to the honor of Thy name, and to the testimony of 
Thy truth ! Almighty God, let not our faith be brought 
to shame ! ” 

“ Amen, Amen ! ” chimed the congregation. 

After these words, Peter bent over the corpse,- and cried 
with a loud voice : 

u In the name of the holy Trinity I conjure thy soul to- 
vivify again this tabernacle it has left ! In the name of the 
holy Trinity I conjure thy soul to speak again through this 
dumb mouth. In the name of Him who took away the 
sting of death and burst the gates of the grave, I conjure 
thee, O Simon — awake ! ” 

When Peter had pronounced these words, he drew back a 
few steps. The other priests divided themselves on either 
side to give a clear view to the beholders. The song from 
the gallery had died away. All awaited, with endless anx- 
iety, what should take place. 

Between the clouds curling from the censers, the mo- 
tionless face of the dead was seen. On it the gaze of all 
was riveted. Each seemed to see whatever fancy cheated 
him with ; now one, now another sign of returning life — 
a movement of the eyebrows, a twitching of the mouth 
beneath the long beard sweeping over his breast — but the 
next moment the illusion had vanished. 


250 


The Last Athenian. 


There lie lay immovable, with stony features. Mighty 
Death defied the burning prayers of the faithful. Nature's 
destroying power will not give up its booty. It places the 
law it received from the beginning, against the power of 
prayer, and the God of Creation seems to hesitate. 

Yet suddenly the countenance of the dead man is contorted 
in a manner which would have awakened the terror of the 
assembly, had not this violent play of the muscles infalli- 
bly betokened the answer to prayer, the return of life in 
those stiffened limbs, the awaited miracle to the confirma- 
tion of the faith and the truth. The lax skin of the face 
is now tightly drawn, now deepens its wrinkles ; the eyes 
open with a glassy look, in which death and unconscious- 
ness still reign, but are quickly lighted up as by a flame — 
the reflection of life relit. There spreads over the church, 
in spite of the copious fumes of incense, a smell of burnt 
flesh, a disgusting fetid smell, which all perceive and all 
ascribe to the breath of the fleeing death angel. Simon’s 
arms move upon the covering of the bier ; his head turns, 
he raises himself up, looks about, brings his hand to his 
e3 r es like one awaking from a dream, and his lips move. 

But if he speaks, it is not heard, as the church resounds 
with the rejoicing cries of the congregation. 

Peter steps forward and places his ear close to the mouth 
of him who had returned from the dead. In a moment he 
signals the priests, who seize the catafalque, lift it upon 
their shoulders and bear away Simon to a private room in 
the transept. Peter exhorts the congregation to thank 
and praise God. He sinks upon his knees and with a sem- 
blance of burning devotion, leads in prayer. Then arises a 
hymn of victory, a psean of Christ’s victory over death. 

This ended, Peter proclaims what the resurrected man 
whispered in his ear: he had testified to the truth of Ho- 
moiousian with a word, which could be heard once, but 
never more spoken again, borne from the throne of the 
Lamb by the spirit of a blood- witness returning to earth. 


The Last Athenian. 251 

From the crowd of chained heretics sounded a voice 
which cried : “ You lie. The Lord will punish you ! ” 

Upon them the miracle had made an equally deep im- 
pression, as upon the Homoiousian multitude. But they 
attributed it to their prayers, and were convinced that 
Simon’s lips had borne witness to the truth of their doc- 
trine. They on their side applied to Peter all he had 
said about Athanasius, and esteemed it not strange that a 
heretic who distorted Moses and the prophets, should not 
hesitate to distort the utterances from the dead, who had 
arisen from the grave. 

The reality of the miracle they did not doubt. They 
little knew the abyss of godlessness, into which religious 
charlatans could descend untremhling. For the faithful of 
that time, there were no eternal laws of reason, only a di- 
vine will. How then could the}’’ have mistrusted that, in 
this case, a sleeping draught had mocked death, and a red 
hot iron recalled life ? 

History, alas, is cognizant of all too many miracles of 
this sort within the Christian church. They have revealed 
themselves wherever hierarchical purposes wedded them- 
selves with the dogma of a divine will, independent of the 
divine laws of reason. They have revealed themselves in 
Mormonism, that last monster, with which the unwise reten- 
tion of Old Testament views has surprised the world and 
punished itself. 

The adherents of Athanasius and the council of Nice, 
the chained and doomed ones, who were called heretics, did 
not allow themselves to be induced to desert their faith. 
For this they had prepared themselves to die. Such a 
death was surely followed by the martyr’s crown, the best 
of all things worth striving for — that, for which many had 
voluntarily sought death, casting themselves- with transport 
into its arms. 

Peter, the representative of the doctrines recognized as 


252 


The Last Athenian. 


orthodox by worldly laws, — the expounder of the dominant 
church’s rights and duties, had in vain, as it seems, em- 
ployed the weapon of conviction. Violence remained. The 
heretics were to partake of the. Lord’s supper before their 
execution, and this must be administered for their soul’s 
salvation, according to the Homoiousian ritual. 

In prolonged and solemn tones, there resounded through 
the church the hymn, “ Oh, Lamb of God, which taketh 
away the sins of the w r orld.” Peter and the eldest presby- 
ter, stepped within the enclosure of the altar. The Host 
was consecrated. The holy table awaited its guests. 

And these, some with their hands tied behind their backs, 
were brought forward by soldiers. They struggled, they 
sought to burst their bonds in order to defend themselves, 
and when these attempts proved unsuccessful, they cast 
themselves to the floor, and were dragged to the altar en- 
closure. Their despair gave itself vent in piercing cries, 
which mingled horribly with the soul-stirring hymn, “ Oh, 
Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world.” 

Dragged forward to the altar, they were lifted up by the 
soldiers. Peter commanded them to kneel. They did not 
obey. The soldiers must bend their knees with force, and 
in this position press them down against the balustrade of 
the altar. 

When Peter extended them the Host, it was met with 
compressed lips and clenched teeth. Personality sought 
this last means to guard its sacred precincts against exter- 
nal violence. 

But against this means was found another, recently in- 
vented, and already industriously employed, latest by the 
patriarch Macedonius, in Constantinople. 

An instrument was brought, by which the most tightly 
clenched mouths were opened, and the Host shot down into 
the throat. 

The first one subjected to this violence, scarce felt his lips 


The Last Athenian. 


253 


freed from this hideous piece of mechanism, before he at- 
tempted to spit out the Host. But when he was unable to 
do this, he beat his head against the stone floor, and burst 
into wild cries. 

During this spectacle, worthy of hell , not earth, there 
continually poured through the vault, the hymn of the 
Lamb of God, which taketh away the sins of the world ! 

An uneasy movement was now visible among the priests 
standing in the choir. In the midst of their group was 
seen a man, whose arrival surprised them, and who now, in 
spite of all their endeavors to restrain him, hastened for- 
ward to the altar. The man was Theodoras. His face was 
veiled with tears, but when he suddenly raised his voice, it 
sounded powerfully with anger and pain. 

The communion ceased. Before Peter had bethought 
himself, words had flowed from Theodoras’ lips, which ought 
to have awakened every conscience, and spoken to the rea- 
son of every one present. In the name of Jesus Christ, 
the founder of the religion of love, in the name of a doc- 
trine destined to enclose with a common bond all human 
differences, which will sanctify man but not kill the holiest, 
the most inalienable in his being, he commanded Peter to 
loose the chains of the prisoners, he commanded the bishop 
and the congregation to cast themselves in the dust, and 
implore the mercy of God, whose wrath they had invoked 
upon themselves, or he, Theodoras, would arm himself with 
the spirit and power of Elias, to call down fire from Heaven 
on their heads. 

While he sent forth these winged words, a rattle of arms 
was heard from the transept, into which the back entrance 
of the church opened ; and before Peter had succeeded in 
giving the signal for seizing the audacious speaker, the 
eyes of the amazed congregation were fastened upon the 
helm-clad, spear-bearing throng, pressing into the choir 
and surrounding the altar. 

16 


254 The Last Athenian. 

At the head of the soldiers was seen the proconsul of 
Achaia. 

Peter was extremely surprised at this sight. He broke 
off the business at the altar enclosure, and went to meet 
Annaeus Domitius. 

“ You here, my son ? What has occasioned your unex- 
pected return ? ” asked Peter, turning pale, but not losing 
his self-command. 

“ I have been recalled by a dangerous tumult, which 
commenced here immediately after my departure. I ask 
you, Peter, who has instigated it ? ” 

“ I have no knowledge of any tumult, only of a judg- 
ment, which blood-thirsty heretics have called down upon 
their own heads. But here it is not meet for } r ou to ask 
and me to answer. I wish to know what has caused you 
to present yourself here with all these. Something extra- 
ordinary must have occurred. My son, have you had news 
from Constantinople or Antioch ? ” 

u Yes, my bishop ! from both places. But this holy room 
seems to me to be hardly the place to discuss such matters.” 
“ You are right. Tell me briefly your news ! ” 

“ It is of such import that it ought to be told, both to 
you and the whole congregation. If you on this account, 

will permit me to speak to your flock ” 

“ Here ? Ho, my son. What are you thinking of? 
Whatever you have to impart to the congregation, must 
here be done through my mouth.” 

“Well, tell the congregation then, that the emperor, de- 
ploring the passions and theological differences of opinion 
which rend asunder the world, has determined to set a 
dam to the madness of parties ; that he has proclaimed to 
the world universal freedom of religion, and commanded 
that every one, be he patriarch, bishop, presbyter or lay- 
man, who shall hereafter trespass upon any private person 
on account of theological or other reasons, shall be punished 


The Last Athenian. 


255 


as a common felon. Tell the congregation, that the empe- 
ror has forbidden, under severe penalties, the using of the 
word heretic , and that you must instantly loose the chains 
with which these unhappy people have been bound, be- 
cause the proconsul of Achaia is here, to hind you should 
you do otherwise ” 

“ Hold,” interrupted Peter, " this speech sounds strange- 
ly in your mouth. An orthodox speaks not thus to his 
shepherd. Whatever has happened — and I fear the worst 
— within these walls I am bishop and you catechumen. 
Go, station yourself among the hearers. There is your 
place. Outside the door of the church you are proconsul of 
Achaia, hut not here. Here your proper place would he 
behind the baptized. If the emperor has proclaimed free- 
dom of religion, that emperor is no longer Constantius, but 
another. Freedom of religion, however, enjoins that no 
Divine worship be disturbed, no sanctuary violated. What 
you have to announce can he proclaimed after the close of 
Divine service. Then we shall see also, if the world has in 
reality so suddenly changed, that an officer can, unpunished, 
trample the laws under his feet, can assume command over 
imperial troops to which be is not entitled, and order pris- 
oners to be loosed, whom he himself has tried, found guil- 
t} 7 and condemned to death.” 

“My Peter, you should bear in mind, that this is not the 
time for talk, but action,” exclaimed Annseus Domitius, and 
hastened with restoring hand to seize upon that chaos, into 
which all around him seemed dissolving. 

The coming of the proconsul and the armed force, might 
have seemed, the result of the prayers of Theodoras. He 
himself was convinced it was, and while the hands which 
had clutched him, to tear him away, dropped in the sur- 
prise of their owners at seeing the soldiers enter the choir, 
he himself stretched out his arm, and pointed to these as the 
proof that his prayers were heard, and that God had deter- 


256 


The Last Athenian. 


mined to set a bound to the horrid deeds done in His name. 
The greatest confusion arose among the assembled Hoinoi- 
ousians. Many stood still, struck with amazement ; others 
pressed forward to hear what was transpiring — what the 
proconsul’s arrival and strange behavior meant ; others 
again stormed on towards Theodoras, who, with bold hands 
began to loose the prisoners. The legionaries, having re- 
ceived their instructions from the proconsul before entering, 
endeavored to hold back the multitude. There arose a con- 
flict between them and the mass, which threatened to re- 
solve itself into a bloody scene. The church echoed with 
confused cries. 

It was at this moment that the proconsul of Achaia 
stepped forward to the middle of the choir and commanded 
silence. 

The priests and the soldiers united their exertions, and 
the multitude’s own curiosity supported his order. 

After it became comparatively quiet in the church, An- 
naeus Domitius pronounced the only incantation which was 
mighty enough to appease the storm, even for a moment. 

He announced that the emperor Constantius had gone 
to his fathers, and that his kinsman, Caesar Julian, had 
been proclaimed emperor and master of the Roman world 
b}' the senate, the people and the legionaries. He an- 
nounced that the first words of the new emperor were, 
freedom of conscience ; his first order, dispatched by a 
thousand couriers to the remotest corners of the Roman 
empire, that every subject, citizen or slave, who bore chains 
on account of his faith, should be set free ; and that any 
one who dared hereafter, in the name of religion, to disturb 
the peace or violate personal security, should be cast into 
chains, and given up to justice as a comon felon. 

These words were received first by the silence of amaze- 
ment, then by a yell of anger rising from the more remote 
portions of the church, where it was impossible to detect 
the offender. 


The Last Athenian. 


257 

\ 

The yell was repeated and grew stronger, when the sol- 
diers, at a signal from Annaeus Domitius, loosed the Atha- 
nasian prisoners, who, as soon as they found themselves 
free, fell into each others’ arms, praising God. 

“ Silence them,” commanded Annaeus, “or you are their 
accomplice. Is it in this way you hail the emperor ? ” 

The bishop ascended into the pulpit, exhorted to silence, 
and referring to the unexpected tidings which had arrived, 
preached a sermon from the text: “Bender unto Caesar the 
things which are Caesar’s, and unto God the things which 
are God’s.” 

His words were eloquent as ever, and under the present 
circumstances, bold. He extolled the qualities of the late 
emperor, and his eminent services in behalf of the orthodox 
church. He lamented that this mighty sword had been 
stolen by death from the striving congregation, and hesi- 
tated not to predict, that the time which had now broken 
in upon them, must be a hard time, one which would put 
them to the test ; but he exhorted his hearers to hold faith- 
fully to the true word, and throughout all reverses put their 
faith in that God who had to-day so manifestly revealed 
himself to their earthly vision. 

“What does he mean with this revelation?” the pro- 
consul asked of the by-standers ; and they hastened to re- 
late, that the bishop had to-day raised up Simon, the saint 
from the dead. 

Annaeus Domitius wished to see him who had been dead 
and raised again. 

Euphemius explained that Simon had just been carried 
to the bishop’s palace. 

This account immediately spread among the soldiers who 
followed the proconsul, and made a deep impression upon 
them. But Annaeus, who doubted everything and doubted 
nothing according to his humor and the surroundings, was 
not open to the demonstrative power of a miracle. To-day 


258 


The Last Athenian . 


it only excited his curiosity. He determined to repair di- 
rectly from the church to the bishop’s palace, to see the re- 
suscitated man. But then he would doubtless be enter- 
tained with a fuller account of the wonderful occurrence by 
his pious Eusebia, who now assumed the post of honor 
above in the gallery, and was assuredly very much surprised 
at the sudden appearance of her Annseus in the cathedral. 

“ Bah,” said he to one of his centurions, “ Apollonius of 
Tyana, and Simon Magus have also raised up the dead. 
It is an art, which now-a-days is cultivated with much suc- 
cess. To die in our time and not be raised again, is an un- 
lucky accident, a bad throw of the dice, caniculcp and noth- 
ing else.” 

Meanwhile the man whom the Athanasians had seen by 
the corner pillar of the transept, and whose gaze had 
strengthened the courage of the condemned, had pressed 
forward through the crowd, separating him from the choir, 
and approached the proconsul. He instantly attracted An- 
nteus Domitius’ attention, by the silent but manifest hom- 
age which the Athanasians paid him. 

The man exchanged a few word., with the proconsul of 
Achaia, and when shortly after, at the side of Annseus Do- 
mitius, and surrounded by his fellow believers, he left the 
church, the name he had disclosed had flown through the 
ranks of the soldiers, told itself to the priests, and spread 
among the multitude, so that all eyes, even those of Peter, 
were fastened upon him, and a tumult of voices accom- 
panied him pronouncing the name, Athanasius. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

UNDER THE NEW EMPEROR. 

On the evening of the same day in which the events 
just described transpired, Chrysanteus received an auto- 


The Last Athenian. 


259 


graph letter from the emperor Julian, accompanied by a 
public proclamation to the people and council of Athens. 

By means of notices posted on the temple doors and the 
statutes of ancestral heroes, the Athenians were called 
together on the following day, in public assembly, to hear 
the emperor’s proclamation. Pnyx, the same hill where the 
Athenian people had assembled, in their golden era, to 
confer on war and peace, their internal politics, on rewards 
and punishments, on spectacles and feasts, again witnessed 
a popular gathering. Many thousand citizens were present, 
in holiday attire ; Annaeus Domitius, at the head of the im- 
perial officers, repaired to the spot in solemn procession ; 
incense was publicly offered to the powers of Heaven, by a 
sacrificial priest crowned with flowers and clad in purple ; 
the oath of allegiance to the new emperor was administered, 
after which Chrysanteus mounted the bema of Demosthe- 
nes, and read the letter of Julian to the people and coun- 
cil of Athens. 

This letter, a model of eloquence, worthy the great and 
talented leaders of the people in the days of the democracy, 
recounted the circumstances which compelled Julian to take 
up arms against Constant! us. Julian submitted to the 
judgment of the Athenians, whether they could find in his 
actions or motives, anything ignoble or worthy of censure. 
We will not attempt to describe what transport was awak- 
ened by this humble reference, so calculated to flatter the 
vanitjr of the Athenians, since it was made by the ruler of 
the Roman world to the people of a provincial city, long 
since of no political importance. But to Julian it was a 
matter of vital import — that his actions should be approved 
by the better portion of the people ; to him, indeed, who 
was Hellen in his nature and burning with the ancient 
Hellenic ideas, Athens was still the most important city 
in his dominions, for it was the city of glorious recollec- 
tions, the bulwark of philosophy and the old religion. 


200 


The Last Athenian. 


After the imperial letter had been laid before the meet- 
ing, the proconsul of Achaia arose and read the new ruler’s 
first edict, which arrived simultaneously with the news of 
his having been hailed emperor at Constantinople, and 
which proclaimed universal religious freedom, as the prin- 
ciple adopted by government and which the people ought 
to follow. Chrysanteus spoke next, and was followed by 
many other philosophers and rhetoricians, who ardently ex- 
pressed their hopes for a new and happier age, which the 
accession of Julian presaged, exhorting the people to de- 
serve this, and make it a reality by the same virtues that 
adorned their fathers. 

After the festivities which should celebrate the change 
in the government, had been agreed upon, the assembty dis- 
solved. Transport and jubilee were carried through the 
city by the gaily-clad throngs, trooping down from the 
Pnyx. 

The edict upon the free exercise of religion contained, 
however, one point which must have seemed, at least to the 
fanatical among the Christians, like a restraint ; it forbade 
the use of the words heretic and idolater, and ordered that 
whoever dared to use violence of any kind whatsoever, 
against those who differed with them in opinion, should be 
punished as a common felon. The followers of the old re- 
ligion were allowed, or rather ordered to open all their tem- 
ples ; and the oppressive restrictions and taxes, to w T hich 
they were subjected by the tyrannical zeal of Constantius 
and the greed of his favorites, were declared repealed. All 
bishops and priests exiled or deposed by Constantius, re- 
ceived permission to return, and with the consent of their 
congregations, reassume their office. 

A few days after, Chrysanteus and his daughter repaired 
to Constantinople, at the invitation of Julian. The pro- 
consul of Achaia accompanied them. The same day they 
arrived at new Rome, the emperor reviewed the eastern le- 


The Last Athenian. 


211 


gionSj which had been gathered there. The great majority 
of these soldiers were Christians. It was with their arms 
Constantius had intended to annihilate the last attempt of 
the old religion to save itself. Now the Athenian guests of 
Julian had an opportunity of witnessing a singular spec- 
tacle. Julian had ascended a magnificent throne, sur- 
rounded by the ancient insignia of Rome and the republic. 
Near the throne stood two altars consecrated to the gods, on 
which the sacrificial flames were lighted. The soldiers 
were ordered to throw a few grains of incense upon these 
-altars as they filed by, if it were consonant with their con- 
victions. Most did this ; only a few held back, though this 
offering was equivalent to a public avowal of the old reli- 
gion. The Gallic legions had already forsworn the flag of 
the cross, and raised their old banners, on which were in- 
scribed : The Homan Senate and People. The imperial 
officers followed en masse the example of the legions. It 
was a scene which, on the one hand must have delighted 
the intelligent friends of the old religion, but on the other 
must have filled them with despair for human nature, and 
disgust at the vileness of their time. Christendom seemed 
to be willing to yield without a struggle. It was as if the 
human race had worn a mask that they suddenly cast 
away. Those firm in the faith retired into solitude, and the 
sun shone upon a teeming multitude in which all, who held 
fast to the belief of their fathers from religious conviction, 
or from consideration for threatened culture, for the right 
of human reason and for the shadow of the old freedom of 
the republic connected with it, were swallowed up in the 
mass of fortune seekers, who embraced the prevailing re- 
ligion of the time, only to win the emperor’s favor and for 
their own advantage. 

But this wholesale defection, — what was it other than the 
fruit of the misguided, though perhaps well-meant, zeal, 
or the lust for power, which bought proselytes for the 


262 


The Last Athenian. 


Christian name by means of temporal advantage, office and 
money. Instead of being a spiritual communion destined 
gradually to pervade and control humanity by the power of 
the living spirit within it, the Christian congregation be- 
came one church , who, — while the spirit of Christianity in- 
dependently of her and in spite of her, propagated its in- 
ner life in a few unnoticed, humble hearts, — exalted herself 
to judge soul and conscience, usurped dignities and privi- 
leges, forced her dogmas into the formulas of councils, 
greedily sucked up all scepticism found among the people, 
only to work it over and amplify it, purchased the approba- 
tion of worldly tyrants, by teaching that imperial sover- 
eignty and a people’s slavery are of God, sought to quench 
the light of reason, and persecuted all who differed from 
her in belief, with a fury surpassing everything before im- 
agined of human nature. 

The defection of the legions was not the only spectacle 
humiliating to the Christian church, that Chrysanteus and 
Hermione witnessed in Constantinople. Julian had in- 
vited to his palace the principal leaders of the different 
Christian parties who were to be found in the capital and 
its neighborhood, in order to persuade them to unite, or at 
least to induce them to live in peace and reconciliation with 
one another. The assembly was numerous, and consisted 
of priests of the lately dominant Homoiousian party, Ho- 
moousian priests lately persecuted with fire and sword even 
while they quarrelled among themselves, Novatians and the 
other confessions. Had it been Julian’s secret intention to 
divert himself and his guests with a sight of the depravity 
and hatred of the Christian priests, he would have been 
perfectly successful. Neither the presence of imperial maj- 
esty, nor shame for unseemly conduct before the eyes of 
heathen philosophers, were powerful enough to keep the 
peace. The members of the meeting insulted one another 
with the coarsest abuse, and accused one another of the 
most hideous crimes. Julian cried many times in vain: 


The Last Athenian. 


263 


“ Hear me. ye Christian, priests ! Our enemies, the bar- 
barians of Germany, the Franks and the Alemanni have 
heard me ! ” 

Julian and Chrysanteus held confidential meetings daily, 
in which they discussed the best manner of reforming the 
old religion, of bringing it into harmony with the necessi- 
ties of the time, and clearly developing those principles by 
which both hoped to improve the human race. They were 
both convinced that these principles were already found in 
their faith, and that they were sufficient for human happi- 
ness. Julian, who at his accession had refused to receive 
the title dominus or sovereign, and who already began to 
surround power with all the symbols of former freedom, 
dreamed of the restoration of the Roman republic, and 
hoped, by the proper education of the rising generation, to 
be able to bring about within the Roman world, what Moses 
with the forty years of wandering sought to bring about in 
Israel, — the crowding out of the slavish spirit by a fresh, 
free and noble popular conscience. Chrysanteus shared his 
zeal. For the accomplishment of this object, they concerted 
plans whose boldness and comprehensive scope, ought to 
have robbed them of every prospect for realization, had 
they not relied on the assistance of Heaven, the purity of 
their designs, and the unheard of power reposed in the 
hands of a Roman emperor. Julian was only thirty years 
old, full of strong wisdom, genius and enthusiasm. What 
could not Chrysanteus expect of him ? 

They both rejected, from principle and from wisdom, the 
use of violent means. The events, in the midst of which 
they lived, had taught Julian that the sword is equally im- 
potent in uprooting either error or truth. He wished also 
perhaps to show the world an example of mildness and hu- 
manity, practised by the followers of the old religion, 
by the side of the horrid atrocities of which the Christians 
had been guilty during their day of power. 


264 


The Last Athenian. 


Julian had determined to select for all the provinces of 
the Roman empire, representatives of his authority who, by 
reforming religion and educating youth, should further the 
great object he had in view. He chose, with the advice of 
Chrysanteus, those priests and philosophers who seemed 
best fitted for these places. Chrysanteus was ordered to 
work in Achaia, and he joyfully received this mark of con- 
fidence. Returning to Athens he carried with him an im- 
perial edict, which was sent simultaneously to the other 
provinces of the empire. In this edict, Julian explained in 
the first place his reformatory plans respecting the priest- 
hood of the old religion. He commanded, that in every 
city the priests should be chosen from among those citizens 
who had especially distinguished themselves for wisdom and 
humanity, without regard to their wealth or social position. 
Their holy office demanded both physical and spiritual pu- 
rity, and when they left the temple to resume the custom- 
ary avocations of life, they should strive as virtuous citizens 
to set a good example to their fellow men. The studies of 
the priest ought to accord with his calling. If he feels 
himself drawn towards the principles of the Epicureans or 
the sceptics, he should resign his office, or study all the 
more diligently the philosophy of Pythagoras, Plato and 
the Stoics, for these teach that the world is ruled by a 
Providence, the fountain of every timely blessing, and pre- 
pare the soul of man for a future state of rewards and 
punishments. The edict also decreed that priests found un- 
worthy their calling, should be instantly removed. 

In the same edict Julian further declared that he wished 
to deprive the Christians of the honor they had acquired as 
the exclusive organizers of mercy and benevolence on a 
large scale. Especially he reminded the Athenians, that 
their fathers were the first who established public hospitals 
and asylums for the poor, and he exhorted them to revive 
the custom in accordance with the necessities of the time. 


The Last Athenian. 


265 


Finally he ordered that the allegorical interpretations 
which philosophers had made of the old traditions of the 
gods, should be collected and used as a general text hook 
in the instruction of youth, and that the initiation into the 
Eleusinian mysteries should he offered free of expense to 
poor citizens and slaves. 

Julian appropriated large sums for the rebuilding of 
fallen temples and the erection of new ones, in the Grecian 
cities. He decreed also that the Christians at their own 
expense, should rebuild the temples they had destroyed or 
injured. 

The Jews, who under the former government were de- 
prived of their privileges and persecuted in many ways, 
were not only included in the decree for universal religious 
freedom, but Julian took them especially under his care, 
gave them permission to return to Jerusalem, and deter- 
mined, with money from the Roman treasury, to build anew 
the temple of Solomon in all its former magnificence. 

After he had regulated the administration of the empire, 
and secured its peace from the intestine hate of religious 
parties, he left Constantinople, to march in battle array 
against the ancient enemy of the Roman empire, Persia, 
who, during his predecessors’ rule, had ravaged and laid 
waste the Roman boundaries. 

On their return from Constantinople, Chrysanteus and 
his daughter had visited the old oracle-temple at Delphi. 
It was Julian’s intention that this temple should recover 
its ancient splendor and the Pythian oracle-service be re- 
established ; he had confided the execution of the plan to 
Chrysanteus. Winter had now robbed of its crown the 
grove, sacred to Apollo, and packed drifts in the valley. 
Chrysanteus and Hermione found the temple desolate. Its 
last priest, the old Herakleon, once the host of Chrysan- 
teus and his daughter, was dead, and his maid-servant had 


266 


The Last Athenian. 


moved into the neighboring city. When Chrysanteus and 
Hermione left the temple— the latter lost in the recollec- 
tions of the night she once had passed there, — they ob- 
served a man, who slowly ascended one of the steep walls 
of the valley and vanished behind a cliff. He bore a hel- 
met on his head, and, a sword at his side, but otherwise, in 
spite of the severe cold, was covered only by a skin around 
his waist. Arrived at the city, Chrysanteus learned that 
the robber band, which nestled in the defiles of Parnassus, 
still continued their ravages in the vicinity,— the man they 
had seen was doubtless one of them. 

The inhabitants of the city believed that these disturb- 
ers of the peace belonged to a Christian sect, called Dona- 
tists, against whom Constant] us had ordered a regular war 
of extermination, and who, through many years of persecu- 
tion, had at last reached an extreme degree of wildness. 
Fleeing from their burned villages to the desert or to nearly 
inaccessible mountain passes, they had there organized 
themselves into robber bands, which disturbed the African 
provinces and certain tracts on the other side of the Med- 
iterranean, whither scattered detachments had succeeded in 
escaping. 

In regard to the Donatists who harassed the country 
about Delphi, they had in the beginning comprised only an 
inconsiderable number, but had gradually been recruited by 
fugitive slaves and soldiers, together with evil-doers of every 
kind. Nor was this all. Among the solitary herdsmen 
and farmers in the Parnassian valleys, they had gained over 
to their religious tenets, many proselytes, and these with 
their families had not hesitated to leave peace and poverty 
in their cots, to share the wild life of their fellow believers. 

Chrysanteus determined to hunt up the Doi atist dwell- 
ers on Parnassus. The citizens endeavored to dissuade 
him from this rash undertaking, but he remained firm in 
his decision. Hermione wished to accompany him, and he 


The Last Athenian. 


267 


gave his consent. They set out, escorted by guides who 
knew the mountain, and equipped with everything that 
could assist them in their expedition. It was not long be- 
fore they were waylaid by some shabbily-clad, but well- 
armed men, who, astonished at their boldness, and above all 
at the sight of the young girl, approached, not to plunder 
but to ask their errand. 

Chrysanteus told them what they had not as yet learned, 
that emperor Constantius was dead, and the power passed 
into the hands of Julian, a man attached to none of the 
Christian beliefs, but to the old religion ; also that he, Chry- 
santeus, sought the Donatists in the emperor’s name, to 
give them information of the universal religious toleration 
proclaimed in every province of the Roman empire. The 
armed men listened doubtingly to his words, but fulfilled 
his desire to be shown to their head-quarters, where he could 
speak to the assembled banditti. 

The Donatists, had chosen their stronghold in an almost 
inaccessible cleft in the mountain, whose shivered sides 
shielded them against the storm, and offered natural abodes, 
which they had improved, as far as they could, with piled 
up trunks of trees. In these wretched hovels, scarce shel- 
tered from the cold and snow of winter, dwelt about two 
hundred human beings, among them a few women and chil- 
dren. The arrival of the little caravan excited great as- 
tonishment, and gathered the people about it. The half 
naked men, the women and children covered with rags, all 
bore the stamp of wildness and the coarsest renunciation. 
The only articles they possessed in profusion, were weap- 
ons, and these of every possible kind, from the spike stud- 
ded club — the fearful favorite weapon of all the Donatists, 
to which they themselves had given the name “ Gideon or 
the Israelite ” — to the helmets, spears, swords and shields, 
they had brought home as trophies from slain legionaries. 

Chrysanteus repeated that he had come in the new em- 


268 


The Last Athenian. 


peror's name, to proclaim to them pardon for all their trans- 
gressions against the laws, as well as protection for their 
persons and religious convictions, in case they were willing 
to return into the bosom of society. To assist this return, 
he promised that the government would cede to them a suf- 
ficient tract of country in the most southern portion of Attica, 
where according to the emperor’s orders, homesteads had 
already been granted to their brothers, the Novatians, who 
possessed the same faith but a more peaceable disposition. 

Until the preparations for their removal were completed, 
Chrysanteus promised that they should be furnished, at the 
expense of the province, with everything tliey needed to 
support life and to repair their needy dwellings, on condi- 
tion that they would give their solemn pledge to disturb 
the country no more by plundering incursions. 

After a long conference between the Donatist priests 
and elders, they announced that they had listened to the 
emperor’s message and thankfully received it. Still they 
did not wish to give any binding promise, until they had 
learned for themselves what sort of a transformation the 
world outside their mountain- had undergone. For this pur- 
pose one of their elders offered to follow Chrysanteus, that 
he might afterwards rejoin his own, and relate to them his 
experience. Chrysanteus consented and returned to Delphi, 
accompanied by the ambassador of the Donatists, a tattered, 
long-bearded, wild-looking old man. 

The news of this successful conference was received by 
the inhabitants of Delphi with every expression of joy, for 
the Donatists had been a severe scourge to them. The 
messenger shortly went back to his mountain, to confirm 
the truth of Chrysanteus’ report. Before the latter de- 
parted for Athens, he had agreed with the authorities of 
Delphi that they should furnish provisions and other neces- 
saries to the Donatists, and three of tlieir elders followed 
him to Athens, to take part personally in the preparation 
of their new abode. 


The Last Athenian. 


269 


Chrysanteus and his daughter were welcomed by the 
populace of Athens with jubilee and festivities. Annaeus 
Domitius, after receiving many proofs of the emperor’s 
favor — though it must be confessed the consulship was not 
one of them — hastened back to Athens, and had, in a gen- 
eral assembly, offered, and without opposition carried 
through, a proposition to erect a statue to the friend and 
teacher of the emperor, the first citizen of Athens. 

Chrysanteus called the people together, and informed 
them of the emperor’s reformatory designs. The delighted 
citizens promised to cooperate with all their power in the 
realization of the great common object. The priesthood 
of the old religion was purified, and the most distinguished 
citizens competed for the vacant places ; the sacrificial ser- 
vice was established with renewed pomp, schools were or- 
ganized for the children of all classes, eleemosynary socie- 
ties were instituted, the great majority strove to return to 
a simpler and stricter mode of life, even the youth seemed 
to be inspired with a more moral spirit ; with a few excep- 
tions, they renounced their luxurious and boisterous pleas- 
ures, and hastened to the hardening sports of the gymna- 
sium and the halls of the philosophers. Everything seemed 
to indicate that a new and better time had come. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

ONE YEAR AFTERWARDS. 

“ Alexander,” said Charmides to his young valet, u I am 
going away shortly and may not return very soon. In fact, 
I do not know when. So if Baruk, the Jew, come here to- 
morrow, to carry you away, break open this letter and show 
it to him.” 

17 


270 


The Last Athenian. 


Alexander looked up in astonishment, for his master had 
not mentioned a word about any journey during the day, 
neither had any preparations been made. But greater than 
his astonishment was his terror at the unexpected prospect 
of being parried away by Baruk. What could this mean ? 
Had his master, who had hitherto shown himself so kind 
towards Alexander, and pleased with his services, now sud- 
denly grown weary of him, and sold him to Baruk, the rich 
slave-dealer, who with his vessels exported slaves to all 
quarters of the globe, even to the barbarians, among whom 
as was believed, their fate was to be slaughtered upon the 
altars of blood-thirsty gods ? 

“ You look sad, my boy. Don’t be afraid ! Give me a 
glass of wine, and then go to sleep ! ” 

“ Master,” asked Alexander with faint voice, “ have you 
sold me to Baruk ? ” 

“How can you hit upon such an idea? Well then, to 
put you at rest, you may know that the letter I just handed 
you, is your letter of freedom. You are free, my boy, free 
as the bird in the air.' You are a slave no longer. Do you 
understand ? ” 

Alexander’s countenance lighted up instantly. 

“ Free ? Oh, what do you say ? Can this be my letter 
of freedom,” he exclaimed, turning and gazing at it. “ Is 
it possible ? ” 

“ It is altogether certain.” 

Alexander fell upon his knees before Charmides, seized 
his hand and kissed it. 

“ Good,” said Charmides, drawing back his hand, “ But 
you forget the wine. Hurry ! ” 

“Free!” repeated the slave boy with delight. “But 
how have I deserved this goodness ? Oh, master, how can 
I repay you — ” 

“ The wine ! Hasten ! ” cried Charmides. 

It was hard for Alexander to restrain the outburst of his 


The Last Athenian . 


271 


gratitude. But at a renewed signal from Charmides, he 
ran out, immediately returning with a full cup in his hand. 

Charmides emptied it. 

Alexander asked hesitatingly : “ May I not accompany 
you upon your journey ? ” 

“No, it is unnecessary. I don’t need you.” 

“But where are you going?” 

“No prying ! Go away ! ” 

“ But although I am free, you will certainly permit me to 
remain in your house and be your servant ? ” Alexander 
made bold to say, his affection and fear of being separated 
from his master mirroring themselves in his countenance. 

“ Don’t bother me with your questions ! Yet,” con- 
tinued Charmides, noticing Alexander’s mournful look, 
“ wait, I will tell you something. Circumstances compel 
our separation, my friend. To-morrow Baruk is the owner 
of this villa. I leave Athens to-night, and perhaps you 
will never again see your master. It was on this account 
I gave you your freedom. It is now your own problem, 
how you shall use this freedom to get on in the world. 
Follow your nature and grasp fortune whenever you can. 
This is my advice, — easy to give, harder, at least the latter 
part of it, to follow. But it contains the art of living, Alex- 
ander. I have noticed that you are eager to learn, that 
you hang over my books, that there is the logician if not 
the philosopher in you. Go te-morrow to Chrysanteus’ 
house. Ask to speak with his daughter Hermione. Tell 
her that you have been Charmides’ waiting slave, but that 
you now lack both fetters and bread. You can write. Beg 
Hermione to procure you a place among her father’s copyists. 
Your face is a letter of recommendation to such people as 
Chrysanteus and Hermione ; they will not refuse your re- 
quest, but rather be pleased at it. Chrysanteus will place 
some work before you, which, while you copy it, can initi- 
ate you into his science, if you think, as you write. He 


272 


The Last Athenian. 


will so arrange it that you can cultivate your soul by the 
same work with which you earn your bread. And if he 
sees that you have improved this opportunity, from a copy- 
ist he will make you his disciple, lead you to the Academia 
and give you a place among patricians and the sons of Ro- 
man senators. Then your fortune will be made, Alexander. 
You will be, what emperor Julian is, a disciple of Chrysan- 
teus. You will be a foster-brother with the emperor, my 
boy, and you will he a philosopher, full of clouds and ideas, 
of mists and conceptions. I have nothing more to say to 
you now, except that you bring my mantle, and light a 
lamp in the library. Fie, Alexander, no tears ! You are 
ugly when you cry. Leave me ! ” 

Soon after Alexander had withdrawn, Charmides went 
into the little library, near his bed chamber. His face was 
pale, and bore the impress of dire determination. After he 
had found the roll for which he sought, he removed the 
lamp to the sofa, threw himself upon it, opened the book, 
but forgot to read, and sank into his thoughts. 

“ Yet, I must write her — only a few lines — to justify my- 
self — free me from any further thought of her.” 

He arose, cast aside the book and seated himself to 
write : 

“Charmides to Rachel: greeting for the last time. I 
took the step to which my duty to you prompted me, and 
from which we both hoped a closer knitting of the bond 
that united us. You know, without doubt, that I did this 
in vain. When I to-day asked your father for your hand, 
he was at first dumb with rage and amazement. ‘You, the 
heathen ! you, the frivolous, dissolute, beggared Charmi- 
des ! ’ This was his answer. It needed no amplification ; 
the look with which he accompanied it was sufficient. Alas, 
my Rachel, your father was entirely right. Between us 
is a wall which cannot be surmounted. May fate be ever 
kind to you ! As for me, I have been wise enough to make 


The Last Athenian. 


273 


myself blase , at the same time as beggared. What care I 
that I have not a coin to purchase a pleasure, when I would 
not accept all the pleasures of the world as a present? 
Life is to me a squeezed orange, whose peel I cast away. 
I go to a land where man can be troubled neither with joy 
nor pain, fear nor hope, probably not even with thought. 
But if one can think there and recall the past, then the 
divine peace I enjoy will be mingled with a thought of 
thee.” 

“Good,” thought Charmides. “Now this affair is dis- 
patched. What could I have done for the poor girl more 
than I have ? Have I not, just to make her happy with a 
blissful illusion, feigned for her a passion which long since 
died out ? It was an unlucky hour when I was dazzled by 
her dark eyes. She has given me more trouble than all 
other women together. Her tenderness, her jealousy, her 
fear for the future, her unhappy susceptibility, which as- 
sumed a thousand forms to torment one — all this have I 
borne with a patience unexampled. 

“ She loves me ! At this moment it does me good to 
reflect upon it. Even Alexander’s tears pleased me. I 
am then really loved by two people ! My departure will 
occasion pain in two beings ! A consolation for human 
nature ! 

“ To vanish from the world and leave behind a void in- 
stead of regrets, that is in truth a disagreeable thought. 
The empty nothing before me and behind, separated only 
by a hideous death spasm ! No, no, at least something 
behind me ! 

« I once hoped to win, with Bachel, a goodly share of her 
father’s possessions. What had then happened ? I should 
have journeyed to Baiae, to restore my spirits with the salt 
of the sea. I should again have begun to enjoy — a little 
while, and more from habit than youthful desire — then 


274 


The Last Athenian. 


have reverted to the physician and besought him to render 
immortal a wretched existence. 

“ Epicurus’ doctrine is the most contemptible the brain 
of man ever produced. I despise the cowardly idea of en- 
joying moderately that you may enjoy long. They seek 
pleasure, but mingle it with the continual fear of excess 
and its results — and therefore they find not what they seek. 
They mix the wine of the gods with the meanest dregs of 
human nature, cowardice. Such a mixture was loathsome 
to me. I sought unmingled enjoyment, and went my way 
without looking to right or left. 

“ The second act of life is glorious. The first is not 
worth mentioning, the third tiresome, the fourth base. I 
have always detested old age. The author’s genius betrays 
itself in supposing that the fifth and last act can be inserted 
in the play wherever one wishes.” 

These reflections carried Charmides’ thoughts back to 
the book he had opened. It was a contemplation of death. 
Grecian literature was very rich in such books. Grounds 
of consolation against death formed an important division 
of morals for the philosophers of certain schools. 

As becomes a traveller, Charmides would familiarize him- 
self a little with the land whither he had determined to 
direct his course. 

The author first advanced the question, whether it be 
better for the happiness of mankind carefully to shun 
every thought of death, or to accustom themselves to it in 
time, in order not to be seized with terror and lose balance 
of soul when the inevitable approaches. He called death 
by the mildest pet names — “a light, dreamless slumber, 
the brother of sleep, a returning to the bosom of mother 
Earth, an arrangement of good Nature herself for the dis- 
solution of our body and the mingling of its component 
parts with the friendly elements ” — and wondered that 
many should refuse to reflect upon it. “ The peace they 


The Last Athenian . 


275 


hope thus to win is threatened every moment, for Nature 
opens graves by the thousand to our eyes; innumerable 
beings, with life and feeling, perish every moment. What 
terrible anguish must seize him who, even in a state of 
health, with unweakened nerves, had not learned to endure 
the thought of death, when he at last is attacked by sick- 
ness, when this sickness increases, when the physician 
doubts, when the physician finally gives him up ! Only 
cowardly and thoughtless persons could therefore choose a 
course so unreliable and dangerous for the preservation of 
their peace. Yet,” the author admitted, that “ even for 
the noblest and bravest nations of the earth, the Greeks 
and the Romans, death was a word of terror, forbidden by 
the law to be named at sacrificial celebrations and other 
festive assemblies, and banished by conventionality from 
private social circles.” 

“This,” continued the author, “shows how deeply an- 
tipathy to death is rooted in human nature. This antipa- 
thy must be overcome, or the soul’s peace and clearness 
will be disturbed by the commonest occurrences.” On this 
account the author agreed with all Grecian philosophers, 
that a man who loved his peace ought, as soon as possible, 
to accustom himself to the thought of death, and investi- 
gate what death really is. He referred to Epicurus who, 
during a painful sickness, and when near the close of life, 
wrote to a friend, that the joy of his soul outweighed the 
pangs of his body, and that his last days were also his hap- 
piest. From the faitli of the immortality of the soul and 
the joys of a future life, many derive a courage which can- 
not be cast down. The author, however, deemed it unwor- 
thy the wise man to derive strength from anything which 
might possibly be an error. One should find strength 
within himself. “Is it not,” he asked, “sufficiently consol- 
ing, to have lived, and in your life to have accomplished 
something useful, and with this calm reflection of the past 


276 


The Last Athenian. 


to wed the happy conception of being united with the 
earth, to nourish and foster all the good and beautiful, and 
of still being useful after death, by means of the dissolu- 
tion of the body, to those of your kind whom you, in life, 
have loved ? ” 

The author went on to enumerate and describe many of 
those instances which could make man, in spite of his 
implanted terror of death, indifferent to it; yes, hostile 
towards his own life. Among these he did not forget the 
voluptuaries, who emptied the cup of pleasure to its dregs. 
The last he described in this category were those who, from 
this very fear of death, rushed into its arms, and preferred 
annihilation itself to being tormented with the thought of 
it. 

This delineation was given with a skill and force, which 
might well have caused the hair to stand on end upon the 
reader’s head, and placed him among the number of those 
described. 

The author was very copious on the subject of annihila- 
tion. His observations coincided with Plutarch’s idea, that 
the fear of death in most people arises not so much from 
the thought of the bodily suffering which accompanies the 
death struggle, nor from the terrors of Tartarus or hell, 
and the representations of eternal torment, as from this 
very thought of annihilation. “ May my hands and feet 
be paralyzed, may ulcers cover my body, may my agony cause 
my teeth to grind and gnash, if only life remain 1 am 
content, though I hung nailed to the cross,” says Maecenas. 
And many think as he. The human soul, like all nature, 
abhors a vacuum. Man can become reconciled to, yes, even 
strive after a condition of changelessness, of unbroken rest, 
inaccessible to sorrow and joy, hope and fear; but even 
such a condition is not annihilation. It assumes the form 
of a sweet, dreamless sleep, that in its depths possesses the 
possibility of awakening, and under whose benumbed ex- 


The Last Athenian . 


Til 


terior lies a feeling of pleasant repose. But where every 
possibility of change is taken away, together with that 
which should not be capable of changing — where no con- 
dition at all is given — there fancy dives into a boundless 
void, groping in vain in the eternal darkness for a few 
atoms, to form an image of the incomprehensible, where 
yawns annihilation.” 

Charmides tossed the book from him and arose. His 
inner life had been like a piece of mechanism, driven by 
outward impulses ; he was enervated, ruined, helpless, — this 
was all he knew of himself, and he would not live, because 
the future awaiting him, was devoid of everything save 
need and contempt. To sink to the dregs of society, after 
having shone in its highest circles, and been a star among 
the pleasure-seeking youth ; to dodge about in a tattered 
mantle, an object of ridicule and pity to the very persons 
on whom he had squandered his estate ; to wander, followed 
by disdain, towards premature infirmities and a despicable 
old age — this his fancy had painted in appalling colors. 
He could escape this fate by a voluntary death. This he 
had long anticipated as the end of his career ; it entered 
into his philosophy, and he had found no difficulty in 
reconciling himself to the thought of it; it had, on the 
contrary, appeared a fitting scene in the last act of life’s 
comedy, heightening the effect of the whole. To go out 
in the meridian of his brilliancy, to leave the world while 
he yet dazzled it and seemed enviable and happy, to tear 
himself from pleasure’s bosom and hasten to the grave’s, 
while still youthful, handsome, fresh, an object for wo- 
man’s tenderness, this would be indeed the only death be- 
fitting a Charmides ! 

Farther than this he had not reflected upon death. He 
legarded it as a necessity, and would use even this necessity 
in a manner flattering to his pride. Yet when the hour of 
his ruin approached, and his temporal weal threatened, like 


278 


The Last Athenian. 


a leaning tower, to topple over upon him, he had from day 
to day postponed his decision. But now the last day had 
come. If he survived this, he would also have survived 
himself, and, his death, if put off a few hours more, would 
be full as despicable, as if it awaited him at the close of a 
long career of contempt and misery. 

For this reason he had deliberately determined that the 
present night should be his last. 

But at the moment, when he threw down the book, he 
felt what he had never before experienced — doubt, yes, ter- 
ror. Humanity’s dread of annihilation, described with 
such power and psychological correctness in the unknown 
author’s work, had suddenly seized Charmides also. 

He paced the floor, vainly fighting against the shudder 
which crept over his limbs. Then he left the room, threw 
on his mantle, and hastened out to collect his thoughts in 
the open air. 

He was at this moment the most wretched of beings. 
He saw in self-murder his only salvation, and yet at the 
last hour was terrified by his savior. 

Thoughts dark and confused rolled through his brain. 
He was not in a condition to control or arrange them, in 
order to reflect calmly upon his situation, and reason 
against the instinct of self-preservation. 

In this condition he wandered on without seeing whither 
he w T ent, till on nearing the city he found the double-gate 
before him, and heard from the street Ceramicus the mur- 
mur of numerous promenaders, enjoying the clearness of 
the cool, starry night. 

He stopped, for in his present temper he preferred neither 
to see nor to be seen of men. Close behind him lay the 
cemetery. He turned and walked thither. 

At the entrance, he was checked a moment by two per- 
sons coming in the opposite direction. As he passed by, 
one of them laid a hand upon his arm and spoke his name. 


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279 


Disagreeably surprised, Charmides baited, regarded the 
man, and recognized Peter, the Homoiousian bishop. 

“Clemens,” said he to the youth who accompanied him, 
“ go on before me to the city. I will be home soon after 
you.” 

The bishop and the reader came from the pillar-field, after 
having carried Simon, the saint, his evening meal. Since 
his resurrection, Simon had again mounted the pillar, and 
now lived his customary life ; if possible, an object of still 
more attraction and admiration than before. 

“ What can you have to tell me ? ” asked Charmides, 
impatiently. 

“ Much,” answered Peter, “ if you have but time to hear 
me.” 

“ That is just what I have not — ” 

“ Well, much can be said in a few minutes. “ Whither 
are you going? I can accompany you, and on the way 
impart to you what I have to say.” 

“ Will you not postpone this conversation till another 
time ? ” 

“ No, it might then be too late — ” 

“ You are right there. Well, it is a matter of indiffer- 
ence to me where we go.” 

“Let us take the first place, then, where we can talk 
undisturbed. There are many such around us.” 

They seated themselves upon a bench, shaded by 
cypresses. 

“ And now, what is it you have to tell me ? ” asked 
Charmides. 

“ Something, which will doubtless seem to you strange 
and presumptuous,” Peter replied. “We are scarcely 
acquainted with each other, and yet you must hear, that I 
wish to mix myself in matters that seem to concern me not 
at all, and you very intimately — ” 

“ Very well. Only let me hear what it is.” 


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The Last Athenian. 


“ My friend, I have dreamed of you many nights ; last 
night in particular, the dream was so vivid, that I have 
felt all day an uncontrollable desire to speak with you. I 
should have sought you out, had I not met you here. What 
do you believe, in general, about dreams ? ” 

“I have no wish to philosophise this evening, Peter. 
But to be brief, they are with me inspirations from the 
stomach, — with you, probably, from Heaven. What did 
you dream ? ” 

“I have dreamed three nights in succession, that you 
stood on the brink of an abyss, and that I saved you from 
falling into it.” 

“ And was this all you wished to tell me ? ” 

“ No, I wish also to say to you, that I am a believer in 
certain kinds of dreams. There are some that in them- 
selves bear irrefutable evidence of their truth. I am at 
this moment convinced that Providence has selected me as 
the humble instrument to save you from some misfortune.” 

Charmides grew attentive. Peter’s words made a strong 
impression upon him. The latter continued : 

“I have asked myself, what is this misfortune "which 
threatens Charmides ? and how can I be enabled to save 
him ? There is so much which separates us from each 
other, which denies me his confidence. Our paths hitherto 
have never met; my view of life is altogether different 
from his, a heaven-wide difference lies between our experi- 
ence of the world. He' would not understand me, were I 
to speak to him from the depths of my heart ; perhaps he 
would not even listen to me. When I asked what the mis- 
fortune could be, with which Charmides was threatened, I 
received no other answer than this : his misfortune is the 
very thing he regards as his fortune, and you will in vain 
seek to change an opinion that is grounded, as it were, in 
his blood, his youth, the gifts and prerogatives with which 
nature has furnished him, and which invite him to pleasure, 


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281 


dissipation, and the intoxication of his senses. You can 
avail nothing now; time alone can accomplish anything. 
The day will come, however, when he shall put back with 
loathing the cup of pleasure, though it he extended to him 
by the loveliest hand. Then he shall voluntarily think on 
his ways. You can as yet effect nothing. But the dream 
returned. You were ready to cast yourself into the abyss. 
You did not walk with closed eyes upon its brink ; your 
eyes were open, you saw all ; your face was dark and 
gloomy, as it is now, and yet, when I seized your arm, you 
stopped willingly, and I was able, without difficulty, to lead 
you out of danger. Such was my last dream. 

“ I, who believe in dreams,” continued Peter, “ because 
our holy books give me grounds for so doing, and because 
long experience supports such a belief, felt myself convinced 
of the truth of this one, both on account of the immediate 
presence and your own knowledge of the danger that 
threatens you, as well as the fact that I really can save you, 
and that you will readily confer upon me the confidence 
necessary for this purpose. Am I mistaken ? ” 

“ Probably.” 

“ I do not believe it. At this very moment you are 
unhappy, Charmides — ” 

“Nonsense ! ” 

“ And you need a helper. The time has come, when the 
cup of pleasure disgusts you — ” 

“ You are right there — ” 

“ See then, a beginning to the confidence I seek to win. 
I scarcely need to know more, for in this you have said, 
that you stand at a turning point in your life, that you will 
begin another course, worthier the noble gifts Providence 
has vouchsafed you, and which, if rightly used, will gain 
you a future of happiness and honor.” 

“ You make me laugh — ” 

“ You doubt such a future, yet feel a loathing for the life 
you have hitherto led. But this is despair ! ” 


282 


The Last Athenian. 


“ What then?” 

“ You, who have the follies of youth behind, and the best 
of life before you ! Is your health broken ? Your young 
nature will regain it. Is your fortune squandered ? You 
will acquire a new one. Or has your despair a deeper 
root ? Charmides, there is an infallible medicine, just as 
there is a disease, of the soul, which leads to the real 
health, the true life. Oh, would that your evil were of this 
kind ! I should take your hand and lead you to the true 
physician. Perhaps it is even so — and I should congratulate 
myself upon it — although you have not looked within, into 
your own bosom. Perhaps your self-examination is clouded 
by thoughts of earthly things, by fear for your temporal 
welfare. This fear must be driven away. Until this is 
done, you will not hear me, and I wonder not at it, for 
preaching to a drowning man is madness. First, draw him 
out of the deep; preach afterwards. So then, if your 
fortune is squandered, if you fear creditors, poverty and con- 
tempt, give me your confidence. I may possibly be able to 
help you.” 

“ You?” 

“ Yes, I!” 

(C Suppose you have guessed rightly, could you avert a 
blow, awaiting me with the rising sun ? ” 

“ I do not deem it impossible.” 

u I know that you are an extraordinary man, an Apollo- 
nius of Tyana among the Christians, that you have raised 
from the dead and performed other wonderful things. I 
am therefore almost tempted to rely upon your talents even 
in this case — ” 

“ Ah ! compare not what should not be compared. Let 
us cling to the subject ! Suppose that Baruk is your cred- 
itor, that you need assistance — ” 

“ Peter, how know you that ? ” exclaimed Charmides. 

“ I know more, much more. Suppose, as I said, that j^ou 


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283 


need assistance from him. You can calmly go home, lie 
down and sleep. I give you my word, that Baruk shall 

have patience.” 

u P you in earned ? Can you perform what you 

promise ?” • 

• I can perform more than promise. All depends upon 
you, and the udine eve you grant me.” 

But whet is your intention ? What are your motives? 

■ — B”? x leave all questioning aside. They may he what- 
ever they like. My condition is desperate, I acknowledge, 
and, if you can save me as I wish to he saved — ” 

“ So that all shall he done in silence, so that your pride 
shall not be wounded — •” 

“ Call it arrogance or pride — the word makes no differ- 
ence — then I lay my fate in your hands, and you may do 
with me what you will ; though I cannot possibly conceive 
what sort of interest you can entertain for me, or how I 
can manifest my gratitude in repayment.” 

“ I desire nothing but your confidence. With this confi- 
dence, I shall attain the rest, and what I wish is your own 
happiness. To begin with ; will you call upon me to- 
morrow after dusk, when I have returned from my work ? 
You have seen me, perhaps, dragging stone for Aphrodite’s 
temple. This is now my daily occupation, and I share with 
joy the labors of my oppressed brethren. When Israel 
was mighty, we pulled down the altars of idols; now we 
must rebuild them, but, as we hope, only to destroy some 
day this work of our own hands. You will not now seek 
me in the Episcopal palace, which is turned into a poor 
house, but in a hut upon Scambonidse. Whoever you ask, 
will show you to my unpretending dwelling. We will to- 
morrow, then, confer more fully upon the means of arranging 
your temporal affairs.” 


284 


The Last Athenian. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

PETER AND BARUK. 

A mandate had gone forth from the emperor Juiian, 
that the Christians should rebuild, at their own expense, the 
temples they had thrown down, during the previous reign. 

At Athens this order produced severe results, for not 
only Peter, but his predecessor in the Episcopal chair, had 
zealously destroyed the altars of the old gods ; in this they 
were supported by the imperial power, which either legal- 
ized such actions, or let them remain unpunished. 

With the death of Constantius, the rich streams had also 
dried up that had flowed from the state treasury into the 
money boxes of orthodox bishops. 

The Christians at Athens were indeed many, hut the 
great mass of them belonged to the poorer class of people, 
and were moreover divided into two parties, of which the 
one persecuted during the reign of Constantius was the 
larger. This party had, through their bishop — for they 
also were now permitted to have a bishop — complained to 
Chrysanteus and the proconsul of Achaia, that they were 
made to suffer for offences of which they were innocent. 
They had not torn down any temples ; why should they be 
punished for the deeds their opponents, the Homoiousians 
had committed ? 

Their complaint had been found just, and they had there- 
fore been freed from participation in the erection of the 
temples. The whole burden had thus fallen upon the 
Homoiousians, whose ranks were moreover thinned by 
numerous defections. 

The rigor with which Chrj^santeus watched over and 
hastened on the work, made the burden doubly oppressive. 


The Last Athenian. 


285 


During this time of suffering and difficulty for the 
Homoiousian communion, Peter had shown himself worthy 
the place to which the congregation had elevated him. 
He had, without a murmur, left the Episcopal palace, an 
edifice belonging to the city of Athens, and removed, with 
Clemens, into a little house in Scambonidae. He bore an 
untiring share in the work, arranged the daily division of 
labor between the members of his congregation, and was 
always ready himself to take the place of any, who by sick- 
ness or other circumstances, were prevented from complet- 
ing their part. He was seen every day, in the midst of 
working men, women and children, dragging stone to the 
temple of Aphrodite. The priests under him were aroused 
by and followed his example. 

The morning after his conversation with Charm ides, 
Peter called on Baruk. 

The old Israelite had recently made preparations on a 
grand scale for a journey to Jerusalem. Ever since the 
time of the emperor Hadrian, the J ews had been forbidden 
to dwell in, or visit their former capital. Even its sacred 
name was blotted out and replaced by a Homan appellation. 
Now all was changed : Julian had not only repealed this 
interdiction, but like a second Cyrus, had exhorted the 
Jews to return to their father land. Upon the holy mount 
Moriah he had determined to erect a temple, which should 
be a new, centre for the worshippers of Jehovah, rivaling 
that of Solomon and Herod the Great in extent and mag- 
nificence. 

A universal transport had seized the Jews. The rebuild- 
ing of the temple, and the gathering of regenerate Israel 
around its holy walls, had never ceased, during their op- 
pression and ignominy, to be their hope and aim. Now, this 
seemed to approach realization. To the great sums, which 
Julian appropriated from the public means to this under- 
taking, was added the voluntary assistance of the Jews, 
lo 


286 


The Last Athenian. 


The rich contributed a portion of their fortune, the poor 
hastened to offer their mite. From Gaul, Britain, Africa 
and the isles of the Mediterranean, the Jews streamed 
to Palestine, few of them intending to settle there, but 
all wishing to take part in the project. This enthusiasm 
was not least at Athens. Letters from Jerusalem to the 
synagogue in Athens, recounted that the ground walls 
were already laid; that old men, women and children, 
took part in the work, that it was carried on with hymns 
and jubilee ; that many of the rich, who rivalled the poor- 
est in assiduity and zeal, used spades and crowbars of 
silver, and did not deem mantles of purple too good for 
bearing away the rubbish. There was among the Chris- 
tians a general conviction that the temple of Jerusalem 
would never again arise, because the doom of destruction 
had been pronounced upon the Mosaic law. Perhaps the 
secret motive of Julian, when he so zealously embraced the 
thought of rebuilding the temple, was no other than that 
of bringing this conviction to shame, and by his imperial 
power producing a speaking witness against the reliability 
of the prophecies, on which the Christians founded their 
faith. The Jews, who for a long time had been treated 
with arrogance and contempt, received even from this point 
of view, new reasons to put forth all their power for the 
speedy accomplishment of the great undertaking. 

Old Baruk did not feel that he had done his utmost in 
giving a considerable sum of money towards the rebuilding 
of the temple. He, even he, wished directly to have a hand 
in it ; he could at least carry up one stone, and he 
praised the God of his fathers, that he had lived to the 
time which, at last, should behold the fulfilment of the 
hope of Israel. He was now equipping two ships, to carry 
him and a number of his fellow-believers, Rabbi Jonas 
included, to the Holy Land. When he now conversed with 
Rabbi Jonas, the latter entertained him no longer with 


The Last Athenian. 


287 


Plato and Philo ; their words and thoughts ran only upon 
the temple, their journey, and the fair prospect for the 
future of Israel. 

During many years, Baruk had employed a portion of his 
leisure in the pious occupation of copying the holy books 
of the law. What care had he not bestowed upon every 
letter ! How neatly they must be turned, and how exactly 
like the letters in the original, which lay before him ! 
There might he, — and according to what Rabbi Jonas 
assured him, there really was — a secret meaning in the 
arbitrary deviation from the usual form, or in the extraordi- 
nary size, certain of the innumerable letters possessed in 
the primitive hook. On this account it was important that 
the copy should resemble it with the most scrupulous exact- 
itude. It was thus a tiresome work, but all the more mer- 
itorious, when it should at last he finished. And finished, 
it now was, to the no small joy of the pious merchant. 
They were complete, all the rolls, and wound around golden 
rods, whose ends were decked with jewels of immense 
value. He had first intended them for the synagogue at 
Athens ; hut now a more ambitious thought had arisen in 
his bosom. He would present them to the new temple, and 
he only feared, that the humble station of their copyist 
among scribes, would render him unworthy such an honor. 

It was, however, by no means Baruk’s intention to 
remain a long time at Jerusalem, still less to settle there. 
He would only see again the city of David, make his 
prayer upon Moriah, witness the activity at the building of 
the temple and carry up his block 5 then he would return 
with a handful of the holy earth, on which his head would 
rest when he should be gathered to his fathers. His wife, 
the aged Esther, was too feeble to undertake a voyage over 
the sea; she and .Rachel were, therefore, to remain at home 
and await his return, when he would tell them all he had 
seen and heard, as exactly and completely, as if they had 
seen it with their own eyes. 


288 


The Last Athenian . 


Baruk had charged Esther to watch Rachel’s conduct 
closely, during his absence ; which was all the more neces- 
sary, as rabbi Jonas, her betrothed, was to accompany the 
expedition. 

In the midst of these preparations, Baruk had been sur- 
prised by the request of Charmides for his daughter’s hand. 
The old man, who knew his debtor’s boundless levity, at 
first received the proposition as an untimely joke, and 
repelled it with great dignity ; but when Charmides, to give 
force to his words, added that the passion was reciprocal, 
that Rachel loved him, Baruk was not only wroth, but 
amazed and terrified. 

He required some moments to collect himself. 

He then, however, despatched Charmides’ courtship in 
words apparently calm, but full of the deepest scorn, and 
referring to his business relations with the lover, declared, 
that as he required the sums he had lent him for his pros- 
pected journey, he should immediately proceed to collect 
the loans now due, and if necessary, use all the power he, 
as creditor, possessed over his debtor. 

Charmides, who would not leave the field conquered, 
hereupon answered with a declaration, which caused the 
blood in Baruk’s veins to turn to ice, and the next moment, 
when Charmides had departed, to seethe like lava. 

Baruk awaited, in painful suspense, an opportunity for 
examining his daughter alone upon her relations to the 
young heathen. He would not, with a premature exposure 
of an unexplained affair, give old Esther anxiety, and cause 
a scene in the house. 

When at last this opportunity presented itself, the trem- 
bling girl fell at her father’s feet, and confessed that she 
loved Charmides. Baruk, contending with his terror at 
this discovery, cautiously sought to ascertain how her 
acquaintance with the giddy youth had arisen, and how far 
it had developed itself. He strove to win Rachel’s confi- 


The Last Athenian. 


289 


dence, and made a great effort to seem calm, but .Rachel 
heard how his voice trembled — she dared not confess all. 

She had “ often seen Charmides, and also exchanged a few 
words with him, when he came to the house to see Baruk.” 
She had moreover “ often met him on her way to the syna- 
gogue.’’ She admitted that she had answered his glances 
and greetings, and that finally she had many times spoken 
with him from the balcony. Charmides had appeared on 
pleasant moon-lit evenings, with a cithara, and played 
and talked in a way that captivated Rachel’s heart. He 
had at last declared that he loved her, and could not live 
without her love. She had then comforted him by saying 
that she also loved him. 

This was all Rachel dared to admit. She did this, 
stammering, blushing, and often hiding her face in her 
hands and fearing to meet her father’s eyes. She, herself, 
had no clear conception of the terrible secret she concealed, 
but her maidenly instinct refused to allow a word of it to 
pass her lips, and she felt a foreboding that its discovery 
would crush her father’s heart. 

A weight fell from Baruk’s breast. He lifted up his 
daughter, declaring that he would forget her false step, if 
she would be very careful hereafter, and remember what 
was due herself, her parents, her betrothed, the religion of 
her fathers, and her own good name. These duties were 
holy; if she transgressed them, she would bring her 
father’s gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. He entreated 
her to arm herself with this thought ; as she would thus 
easily conquer the passion, which had arisen in her breast, 
for a youth w T ho was not only a heathen, but a prodigal, a 
vile, ruined and heartless person. 

Baruk hoped that these reasons would be sufficient, and 
comforted himself likewise with his paternal authority. 
Rachel had come near falling into an abyss, but fortunately 
her honor, so thought the old man, was still unspotted. 


290 


The Last Athenian. 


Thus nothing was yet lost. The thoughtless seducer had 
beguiled her with his handsome looks, his plausible words, 
but Rachel’s passion for him could not, as yet, have any 
deeper roots. It would soon pass away, when she saw that 
an insurmountable wqll stood between her and him. 

In the meantime, this discovery threatened to break up 
Baruk’s plans of travel, and mingled itself unpleasantly 
with his transport for Jerusalem, and the building of the 
temple. Dare he journey and leave Rachel alone under the 
unreliable guardianship of the feeble Esther? 

In the midst of these reflections, the morning after 
Charmides’ call, he was surprised at seeing Peter, the Chris- 
tian bishop, step over his threshold. Baruk had many 
times stood before his bar, and with extreme humility in 
word and manner, spoken for his right against tricky 
Christian debtors, who, hoping for a more favorable decision, 
had appealed from worldly tribunals to the shepherd of their 
souls. Peter, on such occasions, administered justice, for 
which Baruk felt himself all the more thankful, as this, at 
the court of Christian bishops, was not the rule, when the 
creditor was a Jew. 

Now, humility both in word and manner had vanished, 
and Baruk stood courteously, but very erect, before the 
Christian priest, whose jurisdiction was abolished, whose 
power was broken. 

The bishop desired a private conversation. The broker 
granted it. Peter began to speak of Charmides. Baruk 
was aware that Peter entertained an interest in this person 
and his economy ; why, he knew not, though he had never 
ceased beating his brains upon it. He was not surprised, 
therefore, when he heard that Peter’s visit had reference to 
him. 

“ I know,” said Peter, “that you are about to take 
severe measures to collect your demands against the 
thoughtless jmuth — ” 


The Last Athenian . 


291 


u Exactly.” 

“ I am not surprised at this. It is your right, and most 
people in your position would do the same. It must be 
admitted also, that Charmides is one, who, least of all, 
deserves forbearance, if forbearance is ever found in a 
creditor’s dictionary.” 

“ It certainly is not found in mine,” replied Baruk. 
“ The word charity is there, hut I never conduct business 
as a charity, nor charity as a business.” 

“Bight. I perceive that a merchant must distinguish 
between two such dissimilar matters. Neither was it my 
intention to call upon your charity on Charmides’ account. 
He would moreover be too proud to receive it, although 
severity, employed by you at this moment, must ruin his 
whole future.” 

“ That is had, but I now fully intend to be severe — as 
severe as possible.” 

“ I see the matter from the same judicious point that you 
do,” continued Peter, “ but the difference is, that I see 
somewhat farther than you.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“I mean, that if you execute your intention against 
Charmides, you cannot recover anything near the amount 
you have loaned him — •” 

“ I know all that,” interrupted Baruk, with a shrug ; 
“ the fact has caused me a sleepless night, but now I shall 
resign myself to my fate.” 

“ And prevent him from making you whole in the 
future.” 

“ You amuse me. When would he ever be able to do 
this ? You talk of his future, as of something grand and 
brilliant. “ I would not give an obolus for it. Let every- 
body pray the Almighty to preserve them from such a 
future! One does not need to be a soothsayer to see 
whither it leads.” 


292 


The Last Athenian. 


“But if you are mistaken? If Charmides is destined 
to be the richest man in Athens ? ” 

“ He is to have an inheritance, then, you mean ? I have 
procured definite information of his family, and his pros- 
pects in that direction. Alas, they, not even they, are worth 
as much as an obolus. He has inherited once for all. Fate 
will pour no more water into that sieve.” 

“It is not a question of inheritance, but of marriage.” 

“ Of marriage ! ” exclaimed Baruk, amazed. “ Of mar- 
riage and a rich portion ? Is it this you mean ? ” 

“ J ust so.” 

“ Ahem — it would probably then be with my money as a 
marriage portion, that he will pay his debts to me, thought 
Baruk.” 

“ My bishop,” he added aloud and in a thoughtful tone, 
“who then may the rich heiress be, to whom he is paying 
court ? ” 

“ He is not yet paying court to any one, as far as I 
know,” Peter answered. 

“ Then I know more than you,” thought Baruk. 

“ But,” said he aloud, “ I do not understand you. Char- 
mides, you say, is not making love to any one, and yet you 
hold up to me the prospect of his forming a rich matri- 
monial alliance.” 

“ He will within a year marry the daughter of the richest 
man in Athens.” 

“ The daughter of the richest man in Athens 1 ” repeated 
Baruk, astonished. “ You must then mean Chrysanteus 
and his daughter Hermione ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How do you know this ? ” 

“ I can only repeat what I have said.” 

“ It must be by means of divination that you have been 
enabled to look thus into the future,” said Baruk, seriously, 
for he was convinced that the Christian bishop, who could 


The Last Athenian . 


293 


bring the dead to life, held the most confidential relations 
with evil, demoniac spirits. Baruk shared the superstition 
of his countrymen, which at that time was, if possible, 
greater than the superstition of Christians and heathen. 

“ At present,” continued Baruk, “ your prophecy bears 
all the signs of improbability. I know that Charmides and 
Hermione have been betrothed, but his giddy habits of life 
have broken this engagement. Rumor long ago proclaimed 
that Chrysanteus had forbidden him his house, and to this 
is added what I have lately heard, that Chrysanteus wishes 
to have him banished from Athens, because he sets so evil 
an example to youth.” 

“ All this is outweighed by one single fact : Hermione 
loves him.” 

“Is this really so? Well do I know that young women 
allow themselves to be deceived by a handsome exterior, 
still, I thought that Hermione formed an exception to her 
sex — ” 

“ You must remember that Hermione and Charmides 
grew up together, that they w T ere destined for each other 
from their earliest youth. Remember also, that Hermione, 
since the engagement was broken, has repelled all advances 
from other quarters. Does not this indicate that she loves 
him yet, although he has shown himself unworthy of 
her. And if this will not convince you, I will tell you in 
confidence, that very recently her own lips have not 
denied the unconquered passion of her heart.” 

“ That is really something. Upon nearer inspection, it 
seems to be indeed probable. But her father will never 
consent — ” 

“ Her father will consent to everything she wishes. The 
greatest difficulty lies with Charmides himself. Everything 
depends upon his future conduct, for only by a reformed 
life can he hope to regain Hermione’s respect.” 

“ Right. But here we run against an impossibility.” 


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The Last Athenian. 


“ No, no impossibility at all, only an apparent difficulty. 
You know the nature of youth. They must sow their wild 
oats. The more infatuated they have been, the more com- 
plete is often their change to a discreet life. 

“ This does sometimes happen, to be sure. But — Char- 
mides discreet ? It appears to me impossible ! ” 

“ I know him better. I pledge you, that such a change 
shall take place, if you do not render it impossible. The 
threads of his fate lie in the hands of us two. He has kept 
on his way to the abyss of destruction, and stands now on 
its brink. What he hitherto would not see, yawns now, at 
his feet, and he sees it. If he has not already returned, 
you are the cause, for you stand behind him, the sovereign 
of the moment, and it is you who will push him over, or 
open the way of return. If you crush his pride, he is lost. 
All suspect that he is ruined, but excepting you, himself, 
and me, no one knows it ; for he has until this day under- 
stood how to conceal his condition under his way of life, 
which would induce one to believe that the riches of India 
were at liis disposal. Beneath all this he is tilled with 
remorse, and ready for any desperate measure whatever. 
If you ruin him, you know not the result ; if you leave the 
way open to him, he will, with the experience he has so 
dearly bought, hasten to take possession of a future, stand- 
ing ready to receive him, offering him peace, and with 
peace every object of his ambition. If, after having gained 
a new fortune, he should backslide, neither of us need be 
concerned. It is enough for me that Hermione will be his 
wife — that is my object — and it ought to be enough for 
you, that he will pay you to the last obolus. It is you 
alone, who can place him in a position to do this. Only 
leave him in peace, and within six months he will be 
•betrothed for the second time to the daughter of the rich 
Chrysanteus, and within a year be her husband, and the 
heir to all his property.” 


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295 


Baruk had listened attentively to Peter’s arguments. 
Although the old broker, ever since the scene of yesterday 
between himself and Charmides, and the discovery of his 
relations to Rachel, felt toward him a bitter hatred, so that 
he was ready to rejoice at his inability to pay, giving him, 
— Baruk — an opportunity of wreaking his revenge, yet he 
was inclined to see the matter from another point. He 
must take his choice ; on the one side he would lose a con- 
siderable sum by a prodigal son of the despicable Grojim, 
and bear the vexation of an unlucky affair ; on the other he' 
would receive the entire capital loaned, together with the 
accruing interest — thirty to forty-five per cent. It was a 
great tempation for him to retrieve a speculation considered 
hopeless, and change the expected severe losses into bril- 
liant gains by his wisdom, foresight and patience ; and this 
all the more, because it had been his pride to set to the 
young merchants of his race, an example of circumspection, 
foresight, and the talent of making use of circumstances, 
which hitherto had always given success to his followers. 
His younger colleagues were already certain that he would 
lose upon Charmides ; he could now probably show them 
that he had seen further than they — that even in respect to 
Charmides, he knew what he was about, when they thought 
he was acting in the blindest and most thoughtless manner. 

But Baruk had another, and at present more eloquent 
reason for giving his consent to Peter’s request. He 
thought Charmides was in a position to take whatever des- 
perate step suggested itself. His fear for his daughters 
safety was so strong, that, when the bishop crossed his 
threshold, he was debating whether he should dare to leave 
Athens, and undertake his long wished-for journey to J eru- 
salem. If this were now true that Peter told him — and he 
had no reason for doubting it — a way was found, and help 
had come in the right moment, as if from Heaven. Charmi- 
des would, without doubt, cease to set his hooks for Rachel, 


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The Last Athenian. 


as soon as he got a hint of the far greater and more acces- 
sible fortune, awaiting him in another direction. Baruk’s 
innocent little lamb would be shielded from the attack of 
the voracious wolf, while the latter, in the guise of a con- 
trite and repentant sinner, went to seize other prey. 
That would be excellent, indeed. 

And if Rachel’s passion were really deeper than a mere 
passing fancy, she would conquer it, at any rate, when her 
air-castle fell, when she found that Channides’ avowals of 
love were but empty words ; and that he, immediately after 
his courtship of her, directed his plans towards Hermione. 

Her eyes would at least be opened when the news reached 
her ear, that the same, Charmides whom she loved, was 
betrothed to Hermione. 

On these grounds it was not long before Baruk made up 
his mind. He gave Peter a definite promise not to trouble 
Charmides, for at least half a year.. He even asserted that 
he was not unwilling to advance Charmides a loan or two, 
if this should be necessary, as soon as there began to 
appear sure signs of the prosecution of the matter Peter 
had described. 

Upon the evening of the same day, Peter sat after his 
day’s work, in his cottage^ on Scambonidae, within a chamber 
whose furniture \vas of the simplest kind, and which was 
lighted by a lamp of the common potter’s ware. The only 
things that recalled the Episcopal palace, were the books «^[ 
and the image of Christ $ but even this was robbed of its 
precious stones. Peter shared his humble dwelling with his 
foster son, the young Clemens. They had just partaken of 
their frugal evening meal, prepared for them by their host- 
ess, a pious widow of the Homoiousian persuasion. Peter, 
reclining upon a sofa near the lamp, was opening his Ter- 
tullian. Clemens was throwing on his cloak, in readiness 
to leave. 

“ Greet my son Euphemius,” said Peter, “ and do not 


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297 


be tempted to occupy yourself too long to-night with the 
copy of St. John’s Revelations. You have worked to-day 
upon the heathen temple, and must be weary, Clemens. 

“ Oh no ; I am not weary, but I am filled with bitter 
thoughts, my father. It is awful that we Christians should 
erect a temple to heathen idols. We are building a house 
for evil powers, for devils ! ” 

“ The emperor commands it, Clemens. We must.” 

“ No, we must obey God rather than man. We ought to 
refuse to do this, and let the emperor kill us rather than 
comply.” 

“ My son, we submit, because our superior wills it, and 
we are enabled to do this, because we are convinced of final 
victory. The buildings we erect, will not become idolatrous 
temples, but churches.” 

“ Ah, you are right,” said Clemens, his face lighting up. 
“If we only retain this hope, we can work under blessings 
instead of curses. It. is indeed true ; this will sometime, 
when we have a Christian emperor, become a church. And 
this may happen very soon, if what Euphemius told me is 
true, that many of our faith surround the apostate Julian, 
only awaiting a favorable opportunity to send him into the 
pit.” 

u Did Euphemius say this ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Such words are very indiscreet. I shall warn Euphe- 
mius against speaking thus. You ought not to listen to 
words like these, still less repeat them.” 

" But would it be wrong to kill an apostate, who perse- 
cutes us and wishes to root out the Christian church from 
the earth ? ” 

“ Clemens, I have observed that latety you offen ask 
questions with which you should never occupy your mind. 
Take heed, for if man once begins to question, he seldom 
stops, before he has called in question the Most High.” 


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“ God save me from this ! ” 

“ God save you from idle, rambling thoughts ! You have 
your duties to think of, and the books I place in your 
hands. They answer all the questions, which are necessary 
and permitted. Guard your soul, and go not beyond this ! 
Have you met Theodoras, recently ? ” 

“ Yes, father, almost daily. He seems to seek me, and 
follow my steps.” 

“Well?” 

“ I avoid him.” 

(t You should not listen to what he says.” 

“ I have told him so.” 

“You did wrong, even in this, for I have . forbidden you 
to answer him at all.” 

“ Pardon me, father. I only told him that I neither 
would nor could listen to him, and I bade him leave me, 
hereafter, in peace.” 

“ In Theodoras, my son, you see an example of where 
pride and inquisitiveness lead. He despised my counsel, 
relied upon his reason, and read the Holy Scriptures not 
with a humble spirit, not with reference to the opinions of 
the fathers of the church and the inspired interpretations 
of the councils, but with confidence in his own wisdom. 
And the result was his soul’s rain. His delusions are more 
terrible than those of the Athanasians themselves. He 
denies the right of councils to give rules for the understand- 
ing of the Scriptures ; he denies the priesthood of the 
church instituted by Christ, he talks, like many heretics 
before him, of a universal Christian priesthood, and added to 
all this he flatters the heathen, because they are powerful, 
associates with philosophers, and visits daily at Chrysan- 
teus’ house.” 

“ I have forgotten to tell you, father, what happened to 
me to-day while at work,” said Clemens. “Chrysanteus 
was present, as his wont — ” 


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299 


“Yes, he enjoys the sight of our labors,” said Peter. 
“May we allow him this short enjoyment ! ” • 

“ He was present, the hated one, accompanied to-day by 
his daughter. But she looks so good, mild and serious, my 
father ! ” 

“ You looked at her closely, then ? ” 

“ No, 5 ’ answered Clemens, blushing. “ You have com- 
manded me to turn my gaze away from young women, and 
I did so.” 

« Well?” 

“ But she came herself to me and spoke to me — ■” 

A shadow of inquietude passed over Peter’s face at these 
words. He laid aside the roll and raised himself up. 
“Were you standing near her? ” he exclaimed. 

“ No, the place where I was working was quite far from 
the street, where she stood, hut she passed between my 
brothers on to me, and laid her hand upon my shoulder, 
when I turned away, pretending I had not noticed her 
presence.” 

“ Ah, you have again broken my commands ! Have I 
not told you, Clemens, that you must keep your face covered 
with the cloak, when you are out ? ” 

“ But father, I was busy at work ! ” 

“ It is true. I forgot it.” 

“ The sun stood high in the heavens, for it was midday, 
and we were all faint with working in the severe heat. I 
wore only my short working tunic, when this happened, yet 
I was bathed in perspiration, for I had exerted myself 
greatly, to set the brethren an example of obedience to the 
superintendent of the work.” 

“ You were right, Clemens. But what would Hermione 
with you ? What did she say to you ? ” 

“ She asked me my name,— how old I was, — ” 

“ Ah ! ” 

“ Where I was born, and who were my parents — ” 


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The Last Athenian. 


“ And you ? What did you answer ? ” 

“ I answered that my name was Clemens, and that bishop 
Peter was my father; and when she called me hoy , I 
informed her that I was a priest” 

“ Go on ! ” 

“ She laughed at this ; but I told her seriously, that she 
ought to be converted and think on her soul’s welfare. 
Then I turned away and walked from her.” 

“ Was this all ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ God be praised ! ” thought Peter. This ought to teach 
me to be more cautious in future. I shall no longer permit 
Clemens to take part in the work. “ My son,” he added 
aloud, “ You will remain with Euphemius to-night. But 
do not occupy yourself too long copying, you need to sleep 
and regain strength.” 

Clemens wished the bishop good-night, and departed. 

While walking down Scambonidae, he passed a female 
figure, that turned and accosted him with trembling voice. 

“ I see from your cloak, that you are a Christian priest. 
Do you belong to the Homoiousian faith ? Pardon me for 
detaining you with this question ! ” 

Clemens stopped. He saw before him a pretty young 
girl, dressed as a slave of some opulent house. 

“ I recognize you now,” said the girl, who seemed much 
disturbed. “ You are the reader, Clemens. How fortunate 
that I met you ! My intention was to seek the bishop, but 
I have doubtingly walked this street many times, and 
always turned about at his door. I dared not go in, 
neither dared I go home, till I had spoken with him or you. 
How happy that I have met you.” 

u What do you wish of me ? ” 

“ Oh, I am very unhappy,” complained the young slave 
girl. I have a strict mistress, and I happened this evening, 
while she was away, to break her costliest toilet-casket. 


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301 


She punishes me severely for the least oversight — and she 
prized this toilet-casket so highly. I did not dare to await 
her return, but hastened away, and am afraid to go back 
unless you will accompany me home, and persuade her to 
pardon me. Oh, do not deny me this, most pious brother ! 
My mistress is so strict, yes, she is furious, when angry ; 
but otherwise she is good, and God-fearing, and zealous for 
the true faith ; and if you, who are a priest, would accom- 
pany me home, I am sure she would pardon me, at your re- 
quest.” 

The girl seized his hand. Clemens drew it back terrified. 
He had never before been so near a woman. But he felt 
pity for the poor slave, and deemed it his duty to grant her 
request. 

“ Is the dwelling of your mistress far off? ” he asked. 

“ No, good brother.” 

“Well, I will follow you.” 

“ I am eternally thankful to you for your goodness.” 

The girl led Clemens across the street Ceramicus, and 
into a lane, when she stopped before the rear entrance of 
the proconsul’s palace. 

The gate opened directly upon the ladies’ court. They 
• entered, without any porter’s showing himself. The slave 
bade Clemens wait a moment, and vanished through a door 
in the portico. She returned immediately, and conducted 
Clemens through a corridor. Pointing to a door at the end 
of this, she whispered : “ There ! enter ! My mistress is 
at home.” 

Clemens opened the door, and found himself in a boudoir 
glittering with gold and filled with perfumes. Upon a sofa 
reposed a lady, clad in a light dress of lace. Apparently 
surprised at the visit, she raised herself up and regarded 
him with astonished looks. 

Clemens recognized the wife of Annaeus Domitius, the 
beautiful Eusebia, and the courage, with which his errand 
19 


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The Last Athenian . 


had armed him, was instantly succeeded by confusion. He 
stood bashful and timid before the beautiful woman, who, 
with the greatest amazement in her tones asked him : 

“ Is it you, young reader ? What can have brought you 
here at this late hour ? ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THEODORUS. 

Chrysanteus owned a villa near the port of Piraeus, 
where Hermione often passed the pleasant days of sum- 
mer. 

The house was situated upon a hill which, on one side 
overlooked the sea and the lively harbor ; on the other, a 
fruitful dale bordered by vineyards and olive groves. The 
southern slope of the hill was terraced, adorned with all 
the art of the gardener, and shaded by ancient trees. 

Hermione was sitting, one evening, in an arbor on the ter- 
race. Her friends Ismene and Berenice had just left her, 
and she had repaired to this spot, where she enjoyed passing * 
her moments of solitude ; it had been the favorite resort of 
her mother, Elpinice, and reminded her of childish sports 
with her foster-brother — of the happiest days of her first 
and only love. She had brought with her, Plato’s Pliaedo, 
but the power of memory and the evening’s peaceful beauty 
filled her thoughts, so that she forgot to open the book. 

The sea glittered in the splendor of the sinking sun. 
Two ships glided down the harbor, and with swelling sail 
steered away. They were the two pilgrims to Jerusalem, 
which Baruk had equipped. The hum of bustling activity at 
Piraeus, toned by the distance, mingled with the song of 
birds in the tree tops, and the notes of a flute rising from 
the valley. 


The Last Athenian. 


303 


When the sun’s disc neared the horizon, Hermione’s 
solitude was broken by the arrival of a man, wearing a 
cloak, similar to those of the Christian priests. The confi- 
dence with which he approached Chrysanteus’ daughter, and 
took a seat at her side in the arbor, showed he was no 
stranger here. 

u Welcome, Theodorus,” said she, pleasantly surprised. 

“ I thought I should find you here, and directed my steps 
hither, before seeking you in the house. The pleasant 
evening and the desire for a discussion with you, have enticed 
me from the city. I have news of your father. He was 
upon the Pnyx, where the people are assembled to vote for 
a new arclion. There was a hot contest just then, and per- 
haps at this very moment victory is gained.” 

u Do you doubt, then, my father’s reelection ? ” asked 
Hermione. 

“ He has a powerful ally in the emperor’s favor ; it is 
likely, on this account, he will conquer.” 

“ What say you ? Does he need the emperor’s favor for 
such a victory ? I know that my father has latterly made 
many enemies among the Athenians ; but the great major- 
ity must certainly be attached to him.” 

“ I am not sure of this, willingly as I would believe it.” 

“ But such ingratitude would be impossible, exclaimed 
Hermione ! He gives up everything for them. If they 
only knew what anxiety he has undergone for their sake, 
how warmly he desires their prosperity, how he lives only 
for the great cause, which Julian and the noblest men of 
the time wish vindicated, oh, they could but love him ! 
Have you noticed, Theodorus, that my father’s hair is turn- 
ing white ? It is not with age, but with care and anxious 
thought. My poor, dear father ! ” 

“ Yes, if this deserves hate, what is it then, that deserves 
thanks and love ? ” said Theodorus. But you must not 
construe my words in their worst sense, Hermione. With 


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The Last Athenian. 


his knowledge of the times and human nature, Chrysan- 
teus must have prepared himself, from the beginning, for 
the opposition he now encounters. The period of rapture 
could not be long. It is very well to paint the ideal, and 
place it before the eyes of men ; all will be transported by 
it, for all recognize with greater or less clearness, the 
original of their own humanity ; but to seek to realize this 
ideal, Hermione, to seize with a powerful and unsparing 
hand upon realities, to transform them to something truer 
and more beautiful, this calls forth a desperate resistance 
from all the powers of sloth, custom and iniquity. Then 
arises a strife, which ends not till the champions of the ideal 
conquer or fall. The last is the most common, Hermione ; 
yes, it lies in the nature of things, and the order of God, 
that so it shall be. For the champion of the Ideal, even 
he, is but human, full of faults and mistakes; and with the 
truths for which he fights, mingle errors which authorize 
opposition. What if Julian and Chrysanteus should be 
wrong in many things? What if they should wish to recall 
a time which is, and ought to be, dead ; a time which, by its 
very distance, deceives their eyes with a splendor that in 
reality it never owned ? What if their exertions should 
oppose instead of promote the true weal of humanity ? ” 
Such a thought cannot be entertained/’ exclaimed Her- 
mione, “for reason and truth have always been and shall 
ever be, essentially the same.” 

“ Certainly. No time has been devoid of reason or truth. 
But you, and I, are both convinced of the revelation of a 
God in the course of the world, and the fate of the human 
race. In what, then, should this revelation consist, if not in 
this, that His majesty and perfection, under various forms, 
stand forth ever clearer to the beings shaped in His 
image ? You will recall the past. It would be fruitless, 
Hermione. You will revive faith and respect for the old 
gods. It is impossible that such a desperate project can be 


The Last Athenian . 


305 


successful. It is desperate, for it bears an untruth within 
itself. Ah ! in this lies your weakness. Why should you 
mix this fallen world of the gods, in your fight for the 
improvement of the times, the right of reason and civil 
freedom ? What has Zeus, the faithless husband, to do 
with the times or reason, — he, the jealous one, who chained 
Prometheus to the cliff, because, with the gift of fire, he 
became the benefactor of mankind ? What have the 
deified tyrants, to whom you have given place in Olympus, 
what have they to do with the spirit of freedom and the 
worth of man. These culpable, vicious gods, do they 
deserve incense and altars ? Are they the gods in whom 
man can place his hope in life and death ? It is true you 
wish to wash away these unclean, deformed features. You 
condemn, as blasphemers, the poets, who have slandered 
them. But after you have obliterated these features, what 
remains of their individuality ? Nothing. They become 
only impersonal powers, springing from the one, eternal 
God.” 

“ So we, ourselves, regard them,” replied Hermione. 
“ Our philosophers say, that the worship of many gods 
arose through the weakness of men, who divided the attri- 
butes of perfection among many.” 

“ Why, then, do you deny that God who has permitted 
himself to be manifest to the reasoning of your philoso- 
phers ? Because He is incomprehensible to the multitude, 
do you answer? Yes, He is in truth incomprehensible, if 
He, as man}' of your philosophers have imagined, be only 
an inscrutable unity, void of all faculties, — a being who 
does not care for the fate, of men ; but if He is a good, all- 
wise and living Providence, He is not only comprehensible 
to the most simple, but the very One, for whom the most 
ignorant heart has longed, in all time. 

“ You, educated heathen, are proud aristocrats ; you speak 
of one religion for chosen spirits — the wise and reflecting ; 


306 


The Last Athenian. 


of another, for the great multitude. You would keep the 
kernel for yourselves, and cast the shell to the mass of men. 
Against this conception the same mass has itself protested, 
and the protest is Christianity. You would not break down 
the altars, you would not disturb the faith of the simple, 
and rob them of their illusions, which, as you thought, 
made them happy. There are also those among you, who, 
for reasons of state and good order, would retain the old 
-skepticism, without which, they fancied, every thing would 
fall together in ruin. As if a lie were the strong bond 
that held together the world ? Then was proclaimed from 
the lowest order of the people, from fisher-huts and work- 
shops, the same incomprehensible truths, which you have 
confiscated to your own account. This doubtless surprised 
the wise. It was a revelation, and as democratic, Herm- 
ione, as free in its aims, as it were possible to be. It pro- 
claimed one God for all, one wisdom for all. It proclaimed 
that the high and the low, the emperor and the slave, are 
brothers, children of the same Father, participators in the 
same heritage. Away with Roman, Greek, and barbarian ! 
We are all men. Away with master and slave! We are 
all formed for freedom, for the true freedom, which is ever, 
with God’s assistance, in a victorious fight against our 
tyrannical evil passions ! Away with the highest and most 
insurmountable of all division walls which have been raised 
between men — the wall between the righteous and the lost ! 
None is so righteous before God, that he is not a sinner; 
none so fallen that he cannot be raised up ! Away with 
self-complacency as well as with despair ! The pride of the 
self-complacent shall be humbled, and the faith of the hum- 
ble shall be exalted, for there is greater joy in Heaven over 
one redeemed sinner, than over all the righteous within the 
girdle of the ocean. This, Hermione, is the doctrine of 
Christianity; these, the truths proclaimed by Jesus of Naza- 
reth. Tell me, do you find no difference between Him, and 


The Last Athenian. 


307 


Apollonius, the wonder-worker? Apollonius raised the 
dead, and performed miracles, similar to those of Jesus ; 
but what were these to the Hazarene’s greatest miracle; his 
life and teachings ? Have your Caesars, whom you have 
raised to gods, a greater right to that name than the Haza- 
rene ? You are horrified at our words, when we say that 
God was in Christ, and atoned for the world; and yet your 
own reason has made manifest to you the necessity of God’s 
incarnation ; and your myths, among which are many 
entitled to be called prophesies, indicate and presage this. 
Do not 3'our mysteries speak of a God, Dionysus Zagreus, 
the beloved son of the highest God, who descended to earth, 
contended with evil powers, led a painful earthly life, and 
through his death, from which lie arose, became the Savior 
of the human race ? Who is this Dionysus Zagreus, if 
not a dream, which your fathers dreamed of the coming 
Christ? The throngs which made their pilgrimages to 
Eleusis, — do you think they were moved onty by the desire 
for a higher knowledge in divine things ? Ho, they knew 
very well that initiation into the mysteries, changed no 
one to a deep philosopher. They hastened thither, that 
they might find salvation for their souls. In our own days, 
also, since Julian has again opened the temple of myste- 
ries, many newly initiated have been amazed at hearing, in 
darkness and secret, the same doctrines proclaimed, which 
Christianity preaches in the light of day, only simpler and 
purer. And many have returned from Eleusis, longing to 
change the Dionysus of a dream, for the real. Prometheus 
nailed to the cliff, sings of the fall of the old gods, and the 
higher order of the world. Your old myths, clearly declare 
in many places their own insufficiency, and prophesy, like 
the holy books of the Jews, the coming Messiah. The 
Hew-PJa tonic philosophers teach also God’s incarnation, 
from the stand-point of philosophy. Even they, speak of 
the Word, by which everything is made ; even they, speak 


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The Last Athenian. 


of faith, hope and charity, as the ground work of Religion. 
But when they also teach that God’s thoughts are things 
and realities, is it not, then, a wrong conclusion, to regard 
God’s incarnation only as a philosophical thought, not as 
a reality, incarnate in a man ? Ah ! a philosophical thought 
is not sufficient to bring back peace and blessedness to a 
soul in despair. 

“ Think, Hermione, of a murderer, who awakes in horror 
from the intoxication of anger, and sees the bloody offering 
at his feet. He has committed a crime for which nothing 
can atone. His anguish, his despair, his head, even if wil- 
lingly laid under the sword of the law, cannot bring back 
life to the slain. Think, what is yet more horrible, of a 
murderer of souls, a seducer, who, placed as guardian of a 
promising and well disposed child, contaminates its nature, 
develops its evil propensities, casts it into the mire of sen- 
suality, and finally sees his ward perish therein. Think of 
him, awakened to the consciousness of the awful nature of 
his deed. Then follows an anguish which no philosopher’s 
thought can avert from despair and eternal ruin. • Do not 
such need the full certainty of a personal Savior, who, 
even for their sake, that their sins also might be forgiven, 
has borne God’s wrath, and the condemnation of the law ? 
The step, Hermione, which leads from your religion to mine, 
is thus only the step from mere thought, to the living 
reality, — from truth veiled, to the imveiled and manifest.” 

The conversation continued long in this strain. It was 
not the first time Theodoras had spoken with Hermione on 
Christianity. He had for a long time employed every op- 
portunity which offered itself; and these were many, for 
Theodoras, though Christian and priest, had been an almost 
daily guest at Chrysanteus’ house. There had arisen 
between them a friendship which, founded upon natural 
respect, could not be disturbed by their different religious 
views. These had not hindered Theodoras from offering 


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809 


himself as an assistant to Chrysanteus, when the latter, in 
accordance with the designs of the emperor, began to 
organize poor-houses, hospitals, and other charitable insti- 
tutions in Athens and the other cities of Achaia. Theodo- 
ras did not seem to inquire after the opinion of his fellow- 
believers in this respect ; he became the arch heathen’s most 
zealous assistant in everything he deemed good and useful, 
and bore calmly the accusations of heresy and apostacy 
which the Christians generally brought against him. He 
visited the newly established schools, and hesitated not to 
be present in the lecture rooms of the philosophers, where, 
however, he became to many, a troublesome guest ; for he 
did not confine himself to hearing, but took, in his turn, the 
speaker’s stand, for the defense of the Christian faith ; 
astonishing his cultivated listeners with the example of a 
Christian priest who calmly listened to the thoughts of his 
opponents, and warmly, but peaceably, advanced his own. 
He often repaired even to the Academy, to dispute pub- 
licly with Chrysanteus and his disciples. If he were con- 
quered one day — for he found his master in dialectics — 
he returned the next, w r ith new arguments ; his presence 
always produced a lively conversation and exchange of 
thought, he was missed at last whenever he remained away, 
and the young academicians began to regard him as a mem- 
ber of their circle, a Christian Platonist. 

If, with all this, he made no proselytes, he yet compelled 
respect for Christianity, and scattered, perhaps, many seeds, 
which would spring up in the future. 

In the gardens of the Academy, as well as in his private 
conversations with Hermione, he strove, directly opposite 
to the usual representations of the Christians, to show that 
the old and the new religion, did not stand as enemies 
towards each other ; not as the kingdom of the devil and 
darkness against that of God and light ; but that the new 
stood as a later development to the old, as manhood to 


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youth, as fulfilment to prophecy. He gave the old cul- 
ture due honor, and admitted the right of reason, all the 
more willingly, because, according to his view, the unity of 
God and the necessity of atonement were revealed in this 
also. But, side by side with the philosophy of reason, he 
spoke of the philosophy of religious feeling and religious 
necessity ; he gave the latter precedence and in doubtful 
interpretations the deciding vote, because they rest upon 
the uncontaminated instinct, which reaches the truth more 
quickly and surely, than all processes of reason. 

He bade the young philosophers study the holy records 
of Christianity, and they would find, that while these 
declare clearly and distinctly the principles on which 
alone man can build a temple worthy the Lord, yet in all 
other respects, they leave free scope for intellectual activity, 
and spur man on to investigation in Divine things, instead 
of binding him with fetters. 

He spoke of all this now to Hermione, and taking from 
under his cloak a roll, he placed it in her hand. It was the 
book of John, the Evangelist. With earnest entreaties he 
exacted from her the promise, not to pre-judge the book, 
nor cast it aside, but to read and prove it. They would 
then converse more fully on its contents. 

When Hermione objected that the tree must be judged 
by its fruits ; and that the experience of the latest times 
had shown, in a terrible manner, that the leaders of Chris- 
tianity strove to extend the most unheard of spiritual and 
worldly slavery, and that the civil relations of Christians, 
far from showing a picture of love and toleration, was one 
surpassing the wild beasts in hate, fury and blood-thirsty- 
ness : to this Theodorus answered, that these deplorable 
phenomena flowed from an entirely different fountain 
than Christianity — that priesthood, church-councils, parties 
and dogmas, had nothing in common with Christianity, but 
on the contrary, were its greatest and most dangerous ene- 


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311 


f mies. Error had arisen, because it was sought to apply the 
strict definitions of philosophy, to religion. But out of the 
bloody and horrible strife which had arisen, a clearer insight 
into this error would sometime come. Theodorus called 
the contests of parties, with their deplorable results for 
Christianity, the pangs of delivery ; he bade Hermione 
only to read the Scriptures, and she would clearly see that 
the teachings of Jesus are not the root of the Christians’ 
faults, and the misery of the world, but the source of joy 
and blessedness. 

When Hermione reproached the Christians for their con 
tempt of man’s susceptibility of the Beautiful, and the 
madness with which they destroyed works of art, Theodo- 
rus answered, that since the susceptibility of the Beautiful 
had been implanted in man by the Creator, it must dwell 
there, and some time or other be recognized even by the 
Christians. “Does not Thucydides relate,” said he, “that 
the Athenians once, on the approach of a mighty enemy, 
threw down their pillars and statues, to use them as fortifi- 
cations ; yet no one reproached them with barbarism. The 
Christians cannot hate art, but only the accidental forms in 
which she now reveals herself to them. “ Hermione,” 
continued Theodorus, and pointed to the setting sun, which 
painted sea and heaven with purple, “ Nature, in the midst 
of which we live, is but a reflection of God’s beauty. 
Wherever we turn our eyes, we are surrounded by it. Man 
is sunk in a sea of beauty, and he must shut his eyes if he 
would not see it, receive it, and be overpowered by its influ- 
ence. Do you think then, that beauty is anj'thing change- 
able ? that the mirror which the soul holds up to nature, 
can ever grow old and be broken? No, the mirror is the 
soul itself ; the susceptibility of the Beautiful is unchange- 
able, and were all that art has hitherto produced, destroyed, 
from this destruction a new and higher beauty would 


arise. 


312 


The Last Athenian. 


When they had finished their conversation, it was already 
dusk. Since it was uncertain what time Chrysanteus would 
return from the city, Theodorus could not await his arrival > 
he wished Hermione good-night, and took the road to 
Piraeus, impatient to hear the result of the election. 

The news of the people’s decision, had already flown 
over the harbor city. 

“ Citizen,” said Theodorus to the first acquaintance he 
met in the street, “ You were present at the meeting of 
the people ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Who is the new archon?” 

“ Chrysanteus is re-elected,” the man answered, moodily. 

“ Ah ! that is a result I scarcely expected.” 

“ Neither did I.” 

“ Whom did you vote for, my friend ? ” 

" For Chrysanteus.” 

“ And yet you belong to the opposition, if I am not mis- 
taken.” 

“ You are mistaken. I count myself among his adher- 
ents, though I have much to remark against him. He con- 
ducts himself as tyrant and sovereign over the free people 
of Athens. He oppresses us with burdens unheard of till 
this time. We citizens must maintain all the sick and 
poor in the city. We must support schools not only for our 
own children, but for those of our slaves. Was such a thing 
ever heard of? It is an injustice that cries to Heaven, 
Theodorus, and I wonder that we do not flee to some desert, 
rather than endure it.” 

“ And in spite of those complaints about Chrysanteus, 
you gave him your vote to-day, you say.” 

“ Yes, he received the votes of nearly all present, but for 
all that, I do not say that the election was legal.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ J ust as we were proceeding to secret voting, Charmides— 


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313 


“ Charmides, was he present ? ” exclaimed Theodorus in 
surprise. 

“ Yes, for the first time, and probably only to amuse him- 
self and instigate disturbance. Enough. He rose, spoke to 
the people, and proposed public voting instead of secret.” 

“ Well ! ” 

“ Chrysanteus’ little knot shouted assent. The others 
were silent. One naturally accepted their silence as con- 
sent. The public voting commenced. You can easily 
imagine the result.” 

“ No. Why should not public voting have the same 
result as secret ? ” 

The citizen smiled compassionately at this simple ques- 
tion. 

“ You must know,” said he, “ that no one will openly 
break with Chrysanteus, for he is rich and powerful, and 
has the emperor to back him. With secret voting, Chry- 
santeus would not have had a half hundred among a thou- 
sand ; now, he had not ten in a thousand against him. 
Such is the world, my friend.” 

“ Well, consider yourself fortunate that this has hap- 
pened. Chrysanteus is your noblest and best citizen. The 
statue, which you, a year ago, erected to him, bears the in- 
scription, “ To the first citizen of Athens.” If he deserved 
that name then, he deserves it a thousand fold now.” 

“ Ah ! Flatterer ! ” said the citizen, with a shrug, after 
which he exchanged greetings with Theodorus, and con- 
tinued on his way. 

About an hour after Theodorus had left the villa, Chry- 
santeus arrived from the city. Hermione heard, with joy, 
that the election had resulted most brilliantly in his favor. 
Theodorus’ fears had thus not proved true ; the Athenians 
had not shown themselves ungrateful. But on Chrys- 
anteus’ forehead lay a trace of gloom and pain. He 
thought the result of the election might have depended on 


314 


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the proposition which Charmides advanced, that the voting 
should be public. He had latterly experienced many proofs 
of the citizens’ indifference ; had often met, at least a pas- 
sive resistance ; had begun to notice that he stood almost 
alone, and that the work for which he strove had no firm 
foundation in the minds of the people. But he would not 
despair of his object. His hopes rested on the Rising gener- 
ation, destined to grow up under the institutions Julian had 
modelled, under the influence of the spirit which emanated 
from him ; and, as if anticipating that the career of Julian 
would not be long, Chrysanteus grudged every moment, and 
worked with feverish impatience for the object he had in 
view. It was on this account he did not wish to let the 
power pass from his hands ; as a private citizen he could do 
much, but not the same as now. 

When he sat beside his loved Hermione, the gloomy 
cloud first vanished from his forehead as she played on her 
cithara, and sang the song which Elpinice had loved best. 
At supper time, Ochus, the young slave, son of the porter, 
arrived with a letter. It was from Ammianus Marcellinus, 
who now followed J ulian, in the war against the Persians. 
Chrysanteus read, and Hermione listened with beaming 
eyes, to the narration Ammianus gave of Julian’s successes ; 
they rivalled Alexander’s, if they did not surpass them. 
The military glory of Pome’s most brilliant days had 
returned; Julian’s example had changed every Poman 
soldier to a hero. The Persians had lost battle after 
battle. They had, at last, called the rivers to their help, 
broken their dams, and let the water overflow the extensive 
plain, on which the legions were advancing. But even 
this obstacle was overcome by the perseverance of the 
soldiers, filled with their leader’s spirit. He marched on 
foot at the head of his legions, encouraged the despondent, 
and took part with his own hand in the works by which 
the design of the Persians was brought to naught. The 


The Last Athenian. 


815 


masses of water had been led back within their banks, and 
whole forests cut down for laying roads. The army 
approached nearer and nearer the Persian captal. Perisa- 
bor, well fortified and furnished with a large garrison, 
was the second Persian city that had been stormed and 
taken. After Perisabor, it was Maogamalcha’s turn. 
This was the strongest fortress of Persia, situated only two 
miles from the capital ; it was defended, Ammianus wrote, 
by sixteen towers, deep ditches and double walls, and had 
always been deemed impregnable. But Julian had a mine 
dug under the walls of the city, and while the principal 
portion of his army advanced in a general assault against 
the outer works, while the besieging towers were rolled for- 
ward and the catapults hurled their blocks of stone, a 
chosen few had, by means of the subterranean way, entered 
the city, whose garrison, at this unexpected appearance, laid 
down their arms or took to flight. Now the Roman army 
stood in the immediate vicinity of the capital. 

The joy with which the letter of Ammianus filled Chry- 
santeus and his daughter, was mingled with anxiety and 
gloomy forebodings, when the writer at last described the 
temerity with which Julian exposed his own person : he 
seemed, in this respect, also, to have taken Alexander as his 
model. At Perisabor, Julian had led the storming party 
against one of the gates of the fortress ; while the soldiers 
were endeavoring to burst this, the enemy had directed 
from the battlements of the wall, a rain of spears and stones 
against the purple-clad leader. 

At Maogamalcha, two Persians had darted out of an 
ambush, to cut him down. Julian warded off their desper- 
ate blows with his shield, killed one with his own hand and 
put the other to flight, before the Roman soldiers, who were 
working close by, could hasten to his assistance. Ammi- 
anus cited many similar instances, and complained that, 
scarcely a day passed, without the emperor exposing him- 
self to dangers, from which he was saved only by a miracle. 


316 


The Last Athenian. 


When Hermione went to her chamber, her maid, 
Alcmene, was waiting to assist her in unrobing ; but the 
rising moon shone so invitingly into the little room between 
the creeping vines outside her window, and the night winds 
brought in such sweet perfumes, that, listening to Alcmene’s 
description of the beauty of the night, she gave way to her 
desire to pass an hour in the open air, before retiring to 
rest. Alcmene fastened a cloak about her mistress and 
prepared to accompany her, but Hermione said she wished 
to be alone. Followed by the waiting-maid’s eyes, she 
directed her way to her lonely chosen spot. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE MEETING. 

When Hermione found herself alone, she fell upon her 
knees, and with eyes uplifted towards the star-strewn 
heavens, prayed that the wisdom and omnipotence which 
had formed these innumerable lights, find led them in their 
paths, might preserve the life of Julian from the perils of 
war, and grant him a long, happy and blessed reign, as 
the emperor and father of the Roman world. 

The calm beauty of the night, the glistening vault of 
heaven, the quiet expanse of the sea, the groves sighing 
with the light breath of summer, caused the praying girl to 
feel the presence of the Most High around her, and in her 
own soul. 

In the bosom of this nature so filled with beauty, so 
gloriously arrayed by its great Architect, could there be a 
sphere for blind, lawless powers ; did not the same love and 
foreseeing wisdom care also for the life and death of the 


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317 


human race ? The blissful feelings which, with the prayer, 
pervaded Hermione, answered this question with a happy 
and peaceful conviction. The fate of our race is directed 
by *God ; the true and the good shall finally conquer 
untruth and evil ; then the highest lot to which a mortal 
can be chosen, is a place among the champions of the good 
cause ; his strife is never fruitless, he wins even as he falls, 
and he conquers even through his death. 

It was Julian’s image around which Hermione assem- 
bled these thoughts. But it gave way, without her know- 
ing how, to another, which suddenly stood before her 
spiritual vision. It was a comely man, in whose counte- 
nance beamed an unearthly mildness and purity, whose 
eyes, fastened upon Hermione’s soul, seemed, in their look, 
to have gathered and humanized the incomprehensible love 
of the Most High. He bore, like Apollo, a wreath about 
His brow — a wreath not of laurels, but of thorns, and drops 
of blood trickled down His white forehead. He extended 
His hands — they also were blading from deep wounds, but 
He smiled and said : “ Behold, I, too, have conquered, 
through my death.” 

How arose this vision in her fancy ? She recognized the 
Nazarene, of whom Theodorus had spoken with such sincere 
delight., and for whom he had already succeeded in giving 
her not only the respect she must feel for a great Theurgist, 
— a mortal loved by Heaven, but a higher feeling, in whose 
warmth she presaged and feared a dawning love. 

She feared it, # for the Christian name was hateful to her. 
From childhood she had learned, and by her own experi- 
ence of the world, had been compelled, to unite with this 
name, the image of the ugly, the low, the furious, and the 
stupid. The two emperors who had hitherto borne the 
Christian name, had been malicious, crafty tyrants, whose 
wrath was kindled against their own family, as well as their 
subjects. The Christian priests inveighed against reason 
20 


318 


The Last Athenian. 


and freedom : tlie Christian life seemed to her a vibration 
between a wild devotion to lust and vices, and an equally 
unbridled devotion to the mortification of the flesh, by an 
execrable self-torment. In both views, the hideous stood 
forth in all its abomination, coupling itself among the great 
multitude, with love for filth and rags. The doctrine of 
nature’s fall was, to her, a lie, when she looked upon 
nature’s beauty. The representation of an utterly ruined 
human nature, seemed to her alike unworthy and danger- 
ous ; and she regarded, as a fruit of this doctrine, the coarse 
discords and the lack of self-control in a life running to 
extremes and given up to fanaticism and every passion, of 
which the Christian church and its members displayed so 
many instances, — striking contrasts to the calm, harmonious 
forms Grecian philosophy had produced, and of which 
Julian was so noble an example. 

But that Christ, of whom Theodoras had preached to 
Hermione, was entirely different from the spirit which man- 
ifested itself in the Christians’ lives, contemplations and 
civil strifes. He was the most beautiful and most perfect 
being in human form. His teachings were the simplest 
and yet the sublimest the lips of man had ever spoken. 
His being the God-man, seemed also to Hermione a neces- 
sity of reason ; and the tidings he proclaimed, the mission 
he, with his death, completed, the highest proof of Divine 
wisdom and love. 

What then should she believe, what should she do ? 
The intercourse with Theodoras had implanted doubt in 
her soul. She felt it deeply at this moment, after the 
transport of prayer had vanished. She leaned her forehead 
upon her hand, and thought of her father, of his grey locks, 
of the strife where he fought in the front rank. Could 
Chrysanteus’ daughter desert him? This question terrified 
her as she put it to herself. Should she then shun contact 
with Theodoras ? No, that would bear the acknowledge- 

7 O 


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319 


ment, that she was the weaker ; that would he a crime 
against truth, which bade her listen to every reason, and 
lay to heart those that could not be contradicted. But 
she determined to be better armed for her defense the next 
time. The truth would arise all the more clearly, then, 
from the contest of opposite ideas. Hermione would listen 
to her father’s lectures, and arm herself with all the reasons 
the fertile emperor had laid down in his newly completed 
work against the Christian faith. These reasons she would 
then incorporate into her own temple of thought. This 
would restore to that temple its balance, and enable her to 
listen fearlessly to the Christian youth, for whom she felt a 
warm, sisterly affection. 

These thoughts were succeeded by others. Hermione 
was never alone without there arising recollections of 
brother and lover, both of whom she had lost, but both of 
whom she hoped to find again in another life. 

How surprised and perplexed she had been at first, when 
she discovered among the Christians, working upon Aphro- 
dite’s temple, a youth whose countenance so resembled 
Elpinice’s, her mother, and the picture her fancy had shaped 
of Philip ! After she had more dosely regarded the young 
priest, this likeness vanished in some degree, and with it 
an illusion, transporting yet painful. She could not for- 
get the young reader, and if her last conversation with 
Theodorus had not taken the direction it did, she would 
have inquired of him the chief circumstances of young 
Clemens’ life. 

Chysanteus had, that evening, told her that Charmides 
took part in the assembly and voted for him. This sur- 
prised her. What could it mean ? She knew that Char- 
mides and his giddy friends reviled the exertions of Chry- 
santeus, as they scorned everything which lay without the 
circle of their own wild, voluptuous life. Could it be possi- 
ble that Charmides had changed ? Ah ! after this supposi- 


320 


The Last Athenian. 


tion had presented itself, she would not give it up, however 
improbable it might be. 

The sound of an approaching step reached Hermione, 
and interrupted her reflections when they were upon the 
point of relapsing into mournful fancies. She thought 
it was Alcmene, and rose to meet her. 

But at the same moment there appeared before the 
entrance of the arbor, a manly form, wrapped in a dark 
mantle. The moonlight fell upon his pale, but handsome 
face. Hermione recognized Charmides. 

She was confused at the unexpected appearance of the 
object of her thoughts. He also seemed surprised. A 
moment’s silence followed, which was broken by Charmides, 
in a tone both serious and respectful. 

“ Be not afraid, Hermione. An accident has brought me 
hither, and I did not dream of such a meeting, at so late 
an hour. I should otherwise have kept "*nyself far away. 
But since fate has decreed that we should meet — may I 
dare approach you? May I entreat you to remain, and 
hear a few words from Charmides’ lips ?” 

There lay not only in his tones, but in his countenance, 
an expression which Hermione had believed forever de- 
parted, and which reminded her of the former Charmides. 
The rose of health had withered upon his cheek, and his 
look was gloomy ; but in spite of this, he resembled at that 
moment, himself, such as he was when Chrysanteus yet 
called him his beloved pupil. He seemed the same, but 
arisen from a long sickness. 

Hermione conquered her surprise, and said mildly : 

“ I will hear you, Charmides,” and when, after these 
words, silence again ensued, and he seemed to doubt what 
he should do or say, Hermione added, seating herself, and 
motioning him to a place near by: “your arrival surprised 
me at first, for I did not expect it, and it is now so long 
since we saw each other. The beautiful night, though far 


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321 


advanced, has tempted me to pass an hour in the open air, 
and the same night has tempted you to direct your steps to 
a lovely view of the moon-lit sea, recalling many remem- 
brances of your childhood. Is it not so ? ” 

“ 1 do not know whether the night he beautiful or not,” 
said Charmides, seating himself opposite Hermione, and 
throwing back his mantle. “I have no eye for nature. 

I see that the moon shines. I find the night silent, and 
the neighborhood calm, that is all ; hut the recollections 
of childhood — you spoke of them. That, perhaps, brought 
me here ! I know not myself, hut I do know that these 
recollections have begun to rule and torment me. Let me 
speak freely of myself, Hermione ! Conceal your repug- 
nance, and hear what I have to say. I shall then leave 
you, and avoid your presence. 

“ I will ask you : have they a right to torment me, these 
recollections of my childhood, of your father’s goodness, 
and of your own love ? Have I missed my destination, 
and squandered my happiness? Have I been ungrateful 
to your father ? Have I caused you any pain ? You see 
what it is I ask myself. Hear now, also, the answers I 
make to such questions, hitherto, alas ! in vain. Your 
father educated me to love wisdom and beauty. He 
implanted in me a desire for both. I would be wise, know 
God, myself, and the world ; I would conform my mode of 
life to his own model, and I was happy in imagining that 
I could do this. But I learned at last, that I was not 
formed to dive in the bottomless sea of philosophy ; if 
truth lies hidden there, she, at least, could not be brought 
up by me. It was an unpleasant discovery, which greatly 
chilled my zeal, and damped my hopes. I should have been 
a pitiful Platonic philosopher, but I would be something 
whole and complete. Chrysanteus taught me to love the 
beautiful. Alas ! it was only with thy features, Hermione, 
I could imagine anything beautiful. I loved thee, and in an 


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unhappy hour, confessed it. Thy answering love made 
me happy for a short time, — the only happy time of my 
life. But it was not long before I perceived that we were 
not made for each other. I saw more and more, that you 
were my superior, not only in heart, but in intelligence. 
My love mingled itself with admiration, my admiration 
with humility. I am selfish and proud ; but were I 
neither, were I the humblest among mortals, I should, 
nevertheless, not wish to possess a wife who excelled me in 
every thing, and in whose eyes I owned nothing which 
could give me precedence or compel her respect. The 
feeling of your superiority, made me unhappy, Hermione, 
without cooling my love. What I then still possessed, 
and what gave me worth in my own eyes, was the moral 
ideal, which your father’s teachings had revealed to me, 
and the desire to realize this in my own life. This ideal 
is still present before me, but the desire to realize it van- 
ished, when I saw that for me it was inaccessible ; and if, 
in boyhood, I loved it for its own sake, I paid homage to it 
as an ardent youth, only for your sake, Hermione, that I 
might be without spot or blemish in your sight. But after 
my will had once given way, in contact with temptations, 
what remained to me ? To appease my ambition by play- 
ing a role in politics ? Ah ! Hermione, it is necessary for 
this, that there should be politics. To be a despot myself 
would perhaps have pleased me, but to be a despot’s tool, 
for this, I felt no desire. But there lay open to me 
another path, strewm with roses, and easy to walk in. 
Here, I could attain a certain perfection, and outshine 
my companions. Of this I v r as soon enough convinced, 
by a closer acquaintance with the world. I have now fol- 
lowed this path to its end. It terminates in a desert. An 
endless distance divides us from each other, Hermione. 
The pain I have caused you, ought long since to have been 
forgotten. You can, therefore, calmly weigh what I have 


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323 


now laid before you from my inner life. You find I seek 
to justify myself, and lay a part of my burden upon the 
shoulders of fate. If I am wrong in this, your judgment 
must be very severe. Yet, however much your reason may 
condemn, I turn to your heart, Hermione, for from your 
heart, your foster brother hopes forgiveness and forget- 
fulness.” 

“ If you need my forgiveness,” she answered, “ we are 
no longer separated by an endless distance. I grant it 
willingly.” 

“ You say this in so cold a tone, Hermione, that your 
pardon chills my heart, instead of warming it.” 

“ What do you wish more than forgiveness and forgetful- 
ness ? ” she asked, with forced composure. 

“ No,” exclaimed Cliarmides, eagerly, “ I ought to wish 
nothing or all. I ought to require, that you loved me in 
spite of all I have done to quench your love, that you 
renounced your superiority of soul and became the weak 
woman, who could not withdraw her heart from the most 
unworthy of mankind, after she had once learned to love 
him. There are such women, Hermione, but not for me. 
Where shall. I find her, who will take my hand and follow 
me, wherever I go, to happiness or destruction, to opulence 
or misery, to blessedness or eternal torment ? ” 

His words bore witness to the strife which rent him. 
His face betrayed this, also, to Hermione. She looked at 
him and was filled with pity. Those pale features were 
indelibly stamped upon her soul. He was unhappy; he 
reproached himself and would change his course, if only a 
helping hand were extended to him by the one he loved. 
And in the conflict between his pride and despair, he had 
expressed a wish, audacious certainly, but betraying that 
is. the depths of his being, his first love still remained. 

She felt herself deeply moved. Should she repel him ? 
She would then have acted in accordance with the die- 


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tates of a womanly pride, here, if ever, justified ; but she 
would also have denied her own heart, which felt love, ten- 
derness, pity and joy, at the possibility that Charmides’ 
anguish and strife with himself were the way to his regen- 
eration. 

She answered him with a calm, deep voice : 

u Pray the gods for such a wife, Charmides.” 

“I will not pray for the impossible,” returned he, 
gloomily. “ They could not send her to me.” 

“Only make yourself worthy their gifts, and she shall 
not he wanting. God sees that you are unhappy, Char- 
mides, and He, who is the heart of the world, will give you 
what your own heart requires.” 

“ Do you believe it ? ” asked he, with yielding voice. Do 
you believe that any regeneration, any hope is still found 
for me ? ” 

He hid his face in his hands. Whatever might have 
been his calculations, at that moment he was sincere, and 
gave way to the overpowering feelings that sprang from his 
better nature. It was in reality, the consciousness of infe- 
riority and unworthiness, which had separated him from 
Hermione, after he had once yielded to the lus.t of pleasure, 
and the seduction of his blood. He had then stifled the 
love of his youth in wild orgies, but he had never conquered 
it. It rose up with new strength, after Peter, by hinting 
that Hermione did not forget him, had foiled the attempt 
of his pride to deny even to himself the existence of a 
passion, which was unanswered and hopeless. And now, 
his flame suddenly flared up with full force in Hermione’s 
society, of which he had so long been deprived, and at 
the sight of her calm and beautiful face. 

He felt a tender hand clasp his own, and remove it from 
his forehead. 

He looked up. Hermione stood before him, and her 
eyes shone with a moist gleam. 


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325 


He gazed deeply into them. He strove to convince him- 
self that what he saw, was not a vision. When she slowly 
drew back her hand he made haste to take it again, and 
she allowed it to remain in his. 

“Charmides,” she said mildly, “ praised he the gods! 
I have found you again.” 

“ Hermione ! ’ 

Charmides’ eyes glistened with an honest tear, hut the 
sweet smile which rested upon the girl’s face, was reflected 
by his own. A silence prevailed, which neither would 
break. They looked at each other, and felt at that moment 
only the long painful separation, and the happy, unexpected 
reunion. 

“ My dear foster-brother,” said Hermione at last, with 
the loveliest smile, “you must now forget your sorrow and 
again he happy.” 

“ Ah ! my sorrow ! Say my error, Hermione ! ” 

“ And you will, with glad reliance, pray the gods for the 
wife your heart desires, who renounces everything to follow 
thee, in happiness and misery, to greatness or insignificance. 
I will also pray the gods for this gift, the best of all, for my 
regained Ch.armides.” 

“ Oh, do this, Hermione ! The gods will surely hear you, 
my noble Hermione.” 

“ I will speak to my father of this meeting — ” 

“Alas, your father hates me, Hermione, and he has 
reason to — ” 

“ No, I will show that he does not hate you. I will tell 
him of our meeting, and it will not be long before he seeks 
you out, and brings you back to the nest whence you flew.” 

“ When can I see you again ? ” 

“ Soon, and henceforward, often, my Charmides.” 

“ To-morrow, perhaps ? ” 

“ I cannot say. I will speak with my father. Next 
time we will meet openly, before his face.” 


826 


The Last Athenian. 


“ Do not let it be too long, Hermione, for now I need 
your companionship. If your father refuse, what will then 
happen ? shall we be again separated ? It may he that he 
will banish me from your presence, that he will not even 
hear the name of Charmides mentioned.” 

“ Rest easy, my foster-brother, he will not do so.” 

“ But if he does,” repeated Charmides, perplexed, “ how 
shall I again be able to see }mu ? I have so much to tell 
you — and it is so hard for me to leave you, when I am 
uncertain if it be not forever.” 

The anxiety which manifested itself in these words, and 
the tone in which they were uttered, was pleasing to Her- 
mione. They expressed so plainly, love, and the fear of 
losing her.” 

“We shall, in any event, see each other again,” she 
said. “This is my chosen spot, and sunset my chosen 
hour. So you know where to seek me. Look, Charmides, 
how high the moon has risen in the heavens, while we 
have conversed together ! Poor Alcmene, who awuits me, 
must be very sleepy. Perhaps she is already searching for 
me. Good-night, my Charmides. Mark this evening with 
a wdiite stone, and dream to-night, the dreams of child- 
hood ! ” 

Charmides pressed her hand to his breast. They 
exchanged one more eloquent, but indescribable glance. 
He loosed her hand slowly, turned and went away. Her- 
mione watched him disappear behind the shadow of the 
trees. Then she left the arbor and directed her steps 
toward the villa, her bosom swelling with blissful emotions, 
and her joyful eyes raised thankfully to the starry cupola 
of the matchless temple in which reconciliation with her 
lover had now been celebrated. 

Alcmene faithfully awaited her mistress in the chamber. 
The young maid seemed to be half asleep beside the lamp, 
with her arms resting upon the table, when Hermione 


The Last Athenian. 


327 


entered. But when she raised her eyes, she regarded the 
face of her mistress with a stolen, searching glance, and 
had no difficulty in discovering the radiance resting there. 

“ He has been successful then,” thought she. “ It was 
just as I told the bishop.” 

During her unrobing, Hermione conversed more joyfully, 
and in a more confidential manner than usual. 

“ But tell me, Alcmene,” she said, “ why do you let good 
Ochus sigh in vain ? Do you think I have not noticed 
this ? You are not so indifferent to him as you pretend, 
Alcmene.” 

“ How you talk, my lady ! ” said the maiden, blushing 
as she loosed the diadem from Hermione’s locks. 

“ Ochus is a good youth, Alcmene. My father and I value 
him highly.” 

“ I think Ochus is only joking with me,” responded the 
waiting maid. “ It wont do to believe every w'ord such 
people say. They w T ould often make fools of us if we did.” 

“ Oh, you simple girl. Don’t you see that you pain Ochus 
with your affected indifference ? Fie upon such hypocrisy, 
Alcmene. But you are far from being so simple as you 
seem. Or do you wish me to tell Ochus that Alcmene is 
pleased with his tenderness, to be sure, but cannot answer 
it ? ” 

“ No, not for all the world, my mistress ! ” 

Hermione smiled, and spoke of the pleasant farm, down 
in the valley, which Chrysanteus had selected for Ochus and 
his father Medes, the old porter, who, after so many years 
of voluntary service, would doubtless take pleasure in open- 
ing and shutting his own door, and sunning himself upon 
his own threshold. 

Alcmene talked, as waiting-maids are wont, of her mis- 
tress’ luxuriant locks, which it was delightful to arrange, 
and of her beauty, which to-night was more fascinating than 


ever. 


328 


The Last Athenian. 


Hermione listened this time with patience, yes, appar- 
ently with satisfaction, to the girl’s flattering expressions. 

“I am thinking about Eusebia,” said Alcmene, “and 
wondering at her blindness. She wishes to be more beau- 
tiful than you, Hermione, and she is jealous of you, I 
know.” 

“ How can you know this ? ” 

“I talk often with her chief waiting-maid. Eusebia 
always wants to know how you were dressed, when last you 
appeared on Ceramicus. And when this has been told her, 
she exclaims : “What a taste these Athenians have!” Yet 
she imitates your head-dress and every fold in your chiton. 
It vexes her that she was not able to introduce the Roman 
fashions into Athens. Dear me, I can’t help laughing when 
I think of the first days she passed in our city. She caused 
sensation enough, when she came, with her enormous head- 
dress and her flowered silk chiton , leaning upon two slave 
girls, with a slave leading the way, who cried out : “ here is 
an uneven stone in your path,” — “ here the street goes up,” 

- — “here it goes down,” — as if she herself had been blind, 
and could not see a step before her. 

“ I remember it all, Alcmene.” 

“ It was nothing but pride in her, my lady.” 

“ Ho it was not this. Eusebia was habituated to the Ro- 
man customs. The ladies do so at Rome.” . 

“ But it is so ugly and ridiculous ! ” 

“ I do not deny that. Only custom can reconcile us to 
such observances.” 

“ But was it not pride, when Ismene bowed to her on the 
street, and Eusebia did not herself answer this greeting, 
but let her slave do it ? ” 

“ Even this is customary at Rome.” 

“ Ismene thought this so funny, that she could not refrain 
from turning toward Berenice and laughing — for Ismene 
laughs so easily, you know. But Eusebia saw this, and 
could never afterwards bear her.” 


The Last Athenian. 


329 


<( I have heard so.” 

“ But do you know why Eusebia laid away her flowered 
silks ? When the school-hoys saw her on the street, they 
used to point at her and cry to each other : Look, spring 
has already come.” 

11 The Athenian school-boys take after their fathers in 
naughtiness. — Well, I do not need you any longer. Go to 
rest, now, my sleepy girl.” 

“ I wish you pleasant dreams, my lady.” 

“ I wish you the same.” 

Alcmene put the night lamp in its place, and withdrew. 
Hermione was soon afterward transported to the happy 
kingdom of dreams. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SKEPTIC. 

“ What kind of a philosopher am I ? Was it this you 
asked, my ancient and honorable porter ? I belong to the 
most profound of all schools. I am a doubter — more, you 
need not know. And as I doubt if this cup, here, is sufficient 
to quench my thirst, so I doubt also, if you, my dear Ochus 
— Ochus is that your name ? — would have any objections 
to refilling it — your health, my friend ! — Chrysanteus’ wine 
is good. Behold the empty cup, Ochus. Hasten, young 
Ganymede, and fill it once more to the brim. It is not 
every day you have the honor to see a philosopher the confi- 
dential member of your respectable circle. The roast fowl 
is good, my dear cook, but I doubt if you can serve a crane 
as well as the cook of m}*- excellent friend and disciple, the 
antiquarian. Don’t be wounded at my remark, most worthy 
cook. I do not advance it with certainty, for I take especial 


330 


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care never to say anything with certainty. I only doubt, 
do you understand ? ” 

He who thus spoke, was a disciple of Iphicrates, the 
same who once visited Peter, as a seeker after grace, hut 
at the unexpected meeting with Chrysanteus, suddenly 
recollected that he had gone wrong, and really intended to 
call upon the antiquarian, a neighbor of the bishop. 

This young man, known by the name of Cimon, now 
wore a coarse mantle of a philosophic cut, and having for a 
year shunned the barber, was now ornamented with a very 
respectable philosophic beard. These signs indicated that 
he had chosen his party, and exchanged his speculations 
upon the condition of a catechumen and the rite of bap- 
tism, for speculations in the science of sciences. He had 
now given himself up to philosophy. 

Nature and friendship had both assisted the good Cimon’s 
advance in philosophy — nature, which, as just mentioned, 
had given him a beard ; and friendship, which, incorporated 
in the person of the antiquary, had lent him the coarse, but 
whole mantle. You must not suppose, however, it was only 
beard and mantle that made Cimon a philosopher ; he was 
at home, even in logic. It was, indeed, in a moment of 
sheer amazement at his ^readiness in making the most extra- 
ordinary deductions, that the antiquary had been roused to 
such a pitch of liberality in respect to Cimon’s raiment. 
The mantle and the beard were but the outward symbols 
he assumed, in order to win that respect and recognition to 
which his inner self laid claim. 

Cimon was, however, modest or jealous enough about his 
wisdom, not to appear in the public halls of learning ; he 
did not associate with his brothers in science, either because 
he despised them, or because they would not recognize him. 
But if the halls of learning were deprived of his light, lie 
was all the more diligent in presenting himself at the 
dining-halls of well-to-do mechanics who maintained a fair 


The Last Athenian. 


331 


table, and drank tolerable wines. With such hosts, he by 
no means placed his light under a bushel. He astonished 
them by his profound conversation, his syllogisms and 
deductions ; and if the} 7 were inaccessible to logic, he never- 
theless compelled their respect by speaking of his lofty 
birth, and his intimate friendship with the emperor Julian. 
The emperor, he assured them, was a friend of philosophers 
in general, but of the philosopher Cimon, in particular. 
The emperor had offered him a palace in Constantinople, 
and a hundred thousand pieces of gold ; but Cimon had 
refused the gift, because he loved poverty from principle, 
and would not desert his good friends in Athens. 

Cimon’s intercourse was not, however, entirely confined to 
the circle of substantial mechanics. Raised above all 
prejudice, he condescended, on the one hand, (that is, when 
he was very hungry), even to slaves, especially cooks in 
opulent houses ; on the other hand, it was by no means rare 
to see him the guest of young epicureans, yes, even of the 
proconsuT, Annaeus Domitius, at his private suppers, when 
no better parasite was at hand, on whom the company 
might vent their jests and coarse buffoonery. 

On such occasions Cimon gave evidence of a true philos- 
opher’s strength of soul. The jokes of which he was the 
object, never disturbed his equanamity, still less his appe- 
tite. 

He loved not only promenades in the teeming porticos 
and colonnades of the city, but also excursions into the 
open country. With the harbor city as his objective, he 
had to-day undertaken a pleasure trip in the neighborhood 
of Chrysanteus’ charming villa, when, surprised by a sudden 
shower, he took shelter under its roof. He would, without 
doubt, have preferred to brave the inclement weather 
beneath the open sky, bad he not been sure, that both 
Chrysanteus and Hermione were absent. They had gone 
to the city, where Chrysanteus was to hold a public dis- 


332 


The Last Athenian. 


course upon religion. He and his diciples had agreed to 
introduce in the culture of the old faith, the same custom 
which had done, and still does, such important service for 
the doctrines of Christianity — public preaching. 

Cimon received from the servants of the villa, the 
friendly welcome he had reckoned upon. The philosophical 
mantle made its appropriate impression upon old Medes and 
the other servants. Cimon inquired for Chrysanteus, and 
was told what he already knew, that he was, at present, in 
the city. His wish to gain a shelter against the storm, 
and his suggestion that’ a philosopher, travelling on foot, 
might need something wherewith to refresh himself, were 
both received with favor. A table was quickly spread 
under one of the colonnades, and the confidential manner 
in which the guest treated all in his presence, his loquacity, 
and the good disposition he displayed, especially after he 
had emptied the glass several times, had collected around 
him quite a number of slaves of both sexes. 

It drew towards evening. The heavens were' covered 
with clouds, hounded on by blasts from the sea, and the 
rain continued to fall in torrents. 

“ There are, then, philosophers,” old Medes asked, 
inquisitively, “ who call themselves skeptics ? ” 

“ Certainly, they are the most profound of all philoso- 
phers,” answered Cimon, biting into a piece of fowl. 

“Then my master, Chrysanteus, must belong to that 
school,” said the old man, “ since they are the wisest.” 

“ Ho,” Cimon explained, “ your master is truly very wise, 
very profound, very far advanced in science ; but he does 
not belong to our school.” 

“ So ! But upon what do you doubt in particular.” 

“We doubt everything, even to doubting that we doubt 
at all.” 

“ By Zeus, that is odd ! ” remarked Medes. 

“ My friend, it sounds oddly to your unphilosophical ear ! ” 


The Last Athenian. 333 

said Cimon, looking towards Ochus, who was 
with the cup, “ but in fact, it is very natural, and the only 
position worthy the truly wise. I will endeavor to make 
you comprehend this, though in so doing, I must sacrifice 
profundity to perspicuity. Do you understand, for example, 
that you could not see, if you had no eyes ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Medes, “ I know that well enough, for 
my sight is a little dim with years.” 

“ And that you could not hear, if you had no ears ? ” 

“ Yes, I understand that also.” 

“ And that you could not smell, taste or feel, if you had 
no organs of smelling, tasting or feeling ? ” 

“ I comprehend that, too. I know very well that I have 
organs of feeling, — that I do, for I have the gout in my 
left leg ! ” 

“ Well, you ought also to perceive that it is the five 
senses, — sight, hearing, taste, smell and touch, which 
exclusively inform us that there is a world around us ? ” 

“ Hem ! yes.” 

“ But if the senses often deceive us, ought we not to 
doubt their testimony ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Does it not often happen that we see incorrectly ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed. When one’s eyes are dim like mine, 
so — ” 



■e. 


“Were you as keen-eyed as the eagle, it would be just 
the same, my old man. The eyes lie incessantly. They 
make us believe there is such a thing as space. They 
would have us fancy there is rest and motion, and different 
degrees of velocity. This is also a lie. For if we consult 
the deductions of reason, we should arrive at the convic- 
tion that Achilles himself, quick of foot as he was, could 
never have caught up with the slow-creeping tortoise, after 
it had once got the start of him.” 

“Ahem! that is very curious,” remarked Medes. “No 
joking now, with my ignorance, philosopher.” 

21 


334 


The Last Athenian. 


“No, by Zeus and Pallas Athene! Pm not joking,” 
declared Cimon, as he began to cut into a pie. “ The rea- 
son contradicts what the senses testify. Were I now to 
assert that the senses are liars, another can with equal 
right assert that, on the contrary, it is the deductions of 
reason which are false — ” 

“ Yes, I would rather believe that,” declared Medes, “ for 
if I and my son Ochus should run a race, I am sure Ochus 
would beat me, and T am fully satisfied that I sometimes 
rest, and sometimes stir about, my philosopher.” 

“ Don’t interrupt me,” said Cimon. “ I will make this 
matter still plainer to you. You must, at all events, admit 
that we often see incorrectly, hear incorrectly, and so 
forth.” 

“ Yes, I will admit that.” 

“ The senses, therefore, give unreliable testimony, though 
they may sometimes be correct.” 

« Yes.” *• 

“When you now admit that the senses are unreliable, 
and on the other side assert, that the deductions of reason 
are more unreliable, I would like to ask you, what it is 
then, which is reliable ? ” 

“ Hem ! that I don’t know.” 

“Well, then you must also admit, that we must doubt 
everything, since the unreliable senses, and the unreliable 
reason, are our only sources of knowledge.” 

“But I can’t doubt that I’ve got the gout in my left 
leg,” insisted Medes. “ I feel that, by Zeus, at eve^ change 
in the weather. Ask Ochus, if my gout didn’t prophesy 
there would be rain to-day.” 

“ What is the gout, my friend ? ” asked Cimon. 

“ The gout ! it is something that shoots in my left leg, 
so that sometimes I am ready to cry out like a child.” 

“ What is it then, that shoots ? ” 

“ What is it that shoots ? I don’t know.” 


The Last Athenian. 


335 


“ Well, should we not doubt that which we do not know, 
when, according to what I have just shown, we must doubt 
even that which we think we do know? ” 

u Hem, my philosopher — but my gout remains, at any 
rate, whether I doubt or not.” 

“ You said the gout was in your left leg, did you not ? 99 
“ Yes, can you give me a remedy for it ? ” 

“The best of all remedies, my friend, for I will teach 
you to doubt its existence. How do you know you have 
legs, my friend ? 99 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! Pardon me, my philosopher ! But I 
can’t help laughing at you. How could I walk if I did not 
have legs ? 99 

“ I indicated just now, that all motion is only apparent. 
The existence of your legs is thus by no means proved, 
because you fane}' that you walk. But should you reply, I 
see my legs, and I feel them. To this I answer, by remind- 
ing you again, that sight and feeling, like the other senses, 
give unreliable testimony ; and again, you do not see that 
these legs are yours, you see only a pair of legs, which 
seem to be everywhere, you fancy yourself to be ; you 
do not feel that these legs are yours , — feeling only gives 
you to understand that there exists a pair o£ legs, — they 
may be yours or not. You must therefore prove, in the 
first place, that there really is a certain pair of legs 
which you call yours ; and secondly, that these legs are 
yours in reality. For the first proposition, you possess no 
other testimony than the unreliable senses ; hut even if we 
in this case accept them, you have in the latter proposition 
no other testimony than that of an inrooted, and possibly 
entirely false fancy. But should we accept this also, it 
remains for you to prove the existence of a right and a left 
— for it was in your left leg, you said you had the gout. 
You must give me an exact definition of the conception of 
right and another of the conception of left. Should you 


336 


The Last Athenian . 


succeed iu doing this, it is still necessary to show that these 
conceptions have any foundation in reality. But this can- 
not he done, as it cannot be proved that there is a plurality 
of things. The contemplative Parmenides taught, that all 
is one, and this one eternal, immortal, unchangeable and 
illimitable. He arrived at this conviction by thinking : 
but as thought is also uncertain, it is very possible there is 
a plurality, and from this point of view we may suppose 
that there is a right and a left ; that you have legs, Medes, 
that these legs are two, the one a right and the other a left 
leg. But this is, and will remain only a supposition, an 
uncertain and doubtful notion, you would do best to lay 
entirely aside ; since, though unreasonable and founded upon 
nothing, it disturbs, troubles and torments you with a fan- 
cied feeling of a something or a nothing, which you call 
the gout. Your health, my friend ! ” 

The speculative Cimon emptied the cup Ochus had 
placed before him, and then assayed a fresh attack upon 
the remains of the palatable pie. 

“ Hem, that is beyond my comprehension,” muttered 
Medes. u This is a funny philosopher. But,” said he aloud, 
“ if you doubt that I have the gout in my leg, you must 
also doubt that you are at this moment eating a pie, and it 
will be a matter of indifference to you if I take it away 
from under your nose.” 

Old Medes took the plate, containing the pie, from the 
table, and was not a little elated at this style of contradic- 
tion, when he saw how surprised Cimon was, and what 
greedy eyes he sent after the dish. 

“ My friend,” said Cimon after a moment’s silence, “ I 
doubt certainly, whether I was eating pie, before you thus 
interrupted me ; but there is a great difference between 
doubting and denying. I by no means deny it. And if 
indeed it was but a fancy, still it was an agreeable fancy, 
by which I allow myself to be cheated, with the greatest 


The Last Athenian. 


337 


pleasure. I beg you on this account, Medes, reflect if you 
are acting properly in depriving your master’s friend of a 
delicious error, to which, as a guest in Chrysanteus’ house, 
he has a holy right.” 

This reasoning induced Medes again to set the pie 
before the skeptical Cimon, who hastened, with renewed 
zeal, to plunge into his delightful illusion. 

Now Ochus joined in the conversation to support his 
father. 

“ My good philosopher,” said he, “ suppose I run my 
head against the wall so that I feel my skull cracking, 
would that also be a fancy ? ” 

“Certainly,” answered Cimon, “ you run a fancied head 
against a fancied something, which you call a wall, and 
experience through this fancy, a painful feeling which, in 
its turn, is nothing else than a fancy.” 

“ By Bacchus, it would be very strange, if it is as you say. 
But if I strike my head so hard against the wall — that I 
die ? ” 

“ Don’t do it,” said Cimon, “ for you would be acting 
wrongly towards yourself. I have only wished to show you, 
my Ochus, with all I have said, that we must doubt every- 
thing, but deny nothing. It is -possible, although uncer- 
tain, that }mu really have a head, and that there is some- 
thing that may be called a wall, and that you can execute 
a motion by means of which you may strike the one against 
the other. All this is possible, and then commences a con- 
dition called death, which, whether fancied or real, is yet 
shunned by every sensible man.” 

Medes, who thought that the philosopher had again 
begun to talk comprehensibly, asked if Cimon also dreaded 
death. 

“ Yes, old man, that ought not to surprise you. All liv- 
ing things dread annihilation.” 

“Annihilation? Why do you speak of annihilation? 


338 


The Last Athenian. 


we are not annihilated by death ? ” replied Medes, and fas- 
tened his dim eyes, with an expression of terror, upon the 
wise Cimon’s lips. 

“ If we leave the philosophical stand-point and place our- 
selves upon the common point of view, which allows us to 
assume that there is something which is called life, and 
something which is called death, I must tell you, my 
friend, that death, according to my conviction and that of 
most wise men, is nothing else than complete annihilation.” 

Cimon had now finished his supper and stretched him- 
self comfortably upon his sofa, in the centre of the slaves, 
who listened to the conversation. 

Those who, in the beginning, laughed and were amused 
at his curious notions, now that the conversation received a 
more serious turn, and entered upon a question which 
interested them all, began to gather closer about him, to 
hear attentively what his wisdom might reveal. 

The rain continued to fall, and the darkness increased. 
One of the slaves hastened to light a lamp, and placed it in 
the shelter of a pillar, under the portico in which the 
group was assembled. 

“ My friends,” said Cimon, “the soul resembles that 
lamp, whose flame is blown about by the wind. If the 
wind does not put it out, it will go out of itself, when its 
oil has been consumed. You, old Medes,” added Cimon, 
“ do not seem to have much oil left in your lamp.” 

This remark affected Medes very unpleasantly. The old 
man was far from being tired of life. 

“Oh,” he answered, “you have not measured my oil. 
And as to my age, I am not yet seventy. I may see many 
young men fall into the grave before me.” 

“ It is at least certain that in the grave you will forget 
your gout,” said Cimon. 

“ Thank you, but I had rather keep my gout and my 
life!” 


The Last Athenian. 


339 


“ I thought, at your age one would he weary of life.” 

“ Pshaw ! the more one gets the more he wants ; and the 
less one has left, all the dearer is the little he still owns. 
You ought to know that, — you who are a philosopher.” 

“ You may be right, Medes, but tell me, why are you 
afraid to die ? do you fear the three-headed dog ? ” 

“ One porter ought to be polite to another. I am not 
afraid of Cerberus.” 

“ Or do you dread the voyage over the Stygian river? 
It is said old Charon’s boat has got to be very rotten and 
leaky.” 

u Oh, the shades he ferries over are * not troubled with 
flesh. His boat is good enough for such cargoes ; and then, 
after one has died up here in this world, he won’t drown 
down there.” 

“Well said ! ” remarked Cimon. “ But you, Ochus, what 
do you say about death, and the nether world ? ” 

“ I ? I am young, and don’t need to think about such 
things. It is horrid enough, down there, under ground, I 
dare say. I don’t long to go there.” 

“I am not surprised at it. What must await slaves, 
when the lot which falls to heroes and demi-gods in the 
nether realms, is so wretched ? Do you remember what 
the shade of Achilles said to Ulysses ? ” 

“ No, what did it say ? ” 

“ Homer gives it as follows : 

“ Talk not of ruling in this dolorous gloom, 

Nor think vain words (he cried) can ease my doom, 

Rather I choose laboriously to bear 
A weight of woes, and breathe the vital air, 

A slave to some poor hind that toils for bread, 

Than reign the sceptred monarch of the dead.” * 

u Think now,” continued Cimon, “ of such a pitiful con- 
dition, unchangeable and eternal, not even ameliorated by 

* Odyssey, Pope’s Translation. 


840 


The Last Athenian. 


the change from waking to sleeping, and you must admit 
that immortality is nothing to long for, — better expect 
annihilation.” 

“ Annihilation ? No, I had rather be the shade of a 
slave, in the nether world, than he annihilated,” said 
Medes. “Ugh! it is horrible to think about annihila- 
tion.” 

“ Yes, especially in the evening, when it is dark and 
stormy,” added one of the hearers. 

“ Well,” said Medes, “ I have spoken more than once 
with my master about death. He does not say that man 
is annihilated, and he does not describe the nether world 
as hideous. Pious and honest souls come to a place more 
beautiful than earth, to enjoy a happier life than this. You 
must pardon me, my philosopher, if I believe my master 
rather than you.” 

Cimon smiled compassionately, and shook his head. 

“ He says this to comfort you, my old man, and alle- 
viate your fear of death, which now cannot be far away. 
Chrysanteus is a noble man, and I cannot*possibly ascribe 
to him other than noble motives. Entirely different is 
the case with many of his school, and with the poli- 
ticians, who also wish to keep up the faith in the world of 
shadows, because it is a powerful curb upon the ignorant 
masses. But do you believe that Chrysanteus, himself, is 
certain of vwhat he says in this respect ? Certainly not, 
my friend. The gates of death open inwards, and turn 
easily upon their hinges, for the incomer : but outwards, 
they open not, and no shade has ever returned from Hades 
to earth. Chrysanteus, therefore, cannot have received 
from such an one, the supposition with which he seeks to 
calm you, neither has he received it from philosophy, for as 
you hear, there are many philosophers who have drunk to 
the very dregs of wisdom’s fountain, and only been 
strengthened in their doubts of immortality. Opposed to 


The Last Athenian. 


341 


this are the old tales spun together in the past, telling of a 
Hades, and of the soul’s condition there, of Cerberus and 
Charon, of Lethe, where one drinks forgetfulness, of the 
three judges who severely scrutinize the earthly life of the 
deceased, and much more, which must appear ridiculous to 
any sensible man. Plato speaks also, of the dwellings of 
the dead, one of which is exceedingly glorious ; but this 
could not be for such as you, Medes, but only for us philoso- 
phers, who have made ourselves worthy of it, by a life 
devoted to investigating the mysteries of things. But all 
this is only guess-work, improbable suppositions. There is 
no certainty at all.” 

“ Ho certainty at all, do you say ? ” 

“ Hone at all, worthy Medes.” 

“ Howhere any certainty ? ” 

“ Howhere.” 

u I shall speak to Hermione,” said Medes. “ She ought 
to have found a certainty, somewhere.” 

“ Bah ! then go to the Christians,” said Cimon. 

“ To the Christians ? Wherefore to them ? ” 

u Because they are the only persons who are perfectly 
certain of the truth of the most absurd things.” 

“ Could they also give us a certainty of immortality and 
another life ? ” asked Medes, not noticing Cimon’s irony. 

" That is a small affair for them,” answered Cimon. 

“ Verily,” thought Medes to himself, “ it might be worth 
while to hear what they have to say — for be annihilated, 
that I will not.” 

The old slave shuddered, and stared first at the flying 
clouds, then at the lamp flickering behind the pillar. 

/Cimon, who found that his words were making an 
impression, continued the conversation with pleasure, all 
the more, as the rain still prevented him from setting out 
for the city. 

He began now to speak of the gods, whose existence, to 


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£42 

the terror of his hearers, he positively denied. The world, 
he explained, had arisen out of a primeval chaos, by the 
accidental union of atoms. Countless numbers of these 
naturally fell together, before chance arranged such a 
beautiful and fitting dwelling place. He took a comparison 
from the dice £o illustrate this, and said : 

" If I wrote down twenty casts of the dice in order, and 
then took up the dice to throw them until the same casts 
in the same order occurred, I should probably need a longer 
time for this, than ten generations of men. The 'world- 
building chance which played dice with the atoms, has had 
an unlimited time to solve a still more difficult problem, but 
when you think that his play has gone on through eternity, 
you will not wonder that even this combination of the dice 
which is called the world, should at last occur. Do you 
understand me, my friends ? Do you believe the gods steer 
the clouds which are drifting in the heavens, that they 
have a bridle upon the wind now blowing from the sea, and 
can; when they wish, restrain its course ? Do you believe 
that gods are necessary, to cause the mist to rise from 
earth and sea, to collect itself together into clouds, and to 
fall again as rain ? Nature follows its own blind laws ; the 
gods are entirety unnecessary, and I — am thirsty and cold. 
It is very chilly, this evening. Ochus, your master’s wine 
is good and warming. Bring me one cup more, to give me 
strength on my journey. I must return to town, notwith- 
standing this accursed rain, which falls in spite of Olympus 
and man.” 

After Cimon had got what he desired, he wrapped him- 
self in his mantle, expressed thanks for the hospitality 
shown him, and departed; promising to come again, when 
he had an opportunity, and further initiate them into the 
n^steries of his philosophy. 

With most of those who heard him, and especially with 
old Medes, he left a gloomy, restless state of mind. 


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Hitherto it had never occurred to Medes to doubt the 
existence of the gods, and the immortality of the soul. 
He loved life, hut had not feared to think of death, which 
would convey him to a better land, where he might see 
again his wife, and his dearest friends. He had, at far- 
thest, entertained but little anxiety for the three-mouthed 
Cerberus, the surly Charon, and the inexorable judge, 
Rhadamanthus; an anxiety which rendered him desirous of 
postponing this necessary journey as long as possible. 
Could, now, all this be a fable ? Should he never again 
see the departed ones he loved ? Could it be that his 
white beard was not the sign of ripening for a coming life, 
but the premonitor of complete annihilation, a going out 
like the lamp, when the oil has been consumed ? The 
thought distressed him. 

Had the sun been shining in heaven, and nature shown 
her glad face while Cimon spoke, his words would not, per- 
haps, have made such an impression as now, when they 
were supported by the darkness, the sombre host of driving 
clouds, and the mournful pattering of the rain. Medes 
longed for Hermione’s arrival, for he wished to tell her his 
doubts, hoping that she, the philosopher’s daughter, would 
dissipate them with a few words. He longed to approach 
her calm being, to come under the influence, not only of 
her words, but of her eyes, which seemed, themselves, a 
proof of immortality. 

He carried his wish into effect the same evening. 
Hermione was ready to go to rest, when the old porter 
knocked at the door of her sleeping apartment and re- 
quested admission, since he had something of importance to 
ask her, which he could not postpone till the morrow. 

Hermione permitted him to enter. The old slave as- 
sumed a confidential place beside his mistress, and took her 
hand. He had trotted Hermione on his knee when she was 
a little one, and was accustomed to be treated by her not 


844 


The Last Athenian . 


only with friendship, but with that respect to which a 
silver-white beard, faithfulness, and an honest life, have a 
natural claim. 

“Mj^ good mistress,” said Medes, “I praise the gods, 
that I can now speak with you. I should otherwise have 
had a sleepless night.” 

“ What is it that troubles you, my old friend ? ” 

“ I have, this evening, begun to doubt, and that about 
things I do not understand.” 

“ Well?” said Hermione, smiling. 

“ Ah ! my mistress, this is a very serious matter. I want 
to know if there are gods, and if the soul dies like the body, 
or if it survives after death.” 

“ How ? do you doubt this ? ” 

“ Certainly not. I have never doubted it — before now, 
this evening — ” 

“ And why this evening ? ” 

Medes recounted the visit which Cimon had made at 
the villa, and the conversation they had held, adding that 
he had felt troubled in spirit, ever since, and that his 
errand now was to seek peace from Hermione. 

“ He was convinced that she, who received so much of 
her father’s wisdom, would surely be able to drive away the 
doubts Cimon had raised. 

“ Don’t be uneasy, Medes,” said Hermione, gladly, 
“Let me hear the profound Cimon’s arguments, and I 
promise you I will refute them.” 

“ His arguments ? Yes, yes — do you know, my mistress, 
if he had any, I have entirely forgotten them now. But 
he pointed to the lamp and said, as it goes out, so the soul 
is extinguished. And as to the gods, he denied them, and 
said that the world came about like a lucky throw of the 
dice. Can you contradict such assertions ? ” 

“ That is not difficult, Medes, if you will only keep atten- 
tive, so as to understand what I say — ” 


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845 


“ That is n)t necessary, my good Herndon e. If you only 
say you can contradict Cimon, I shall believe your words 
more than my own understanding. The soul, then, is not 
extinguished like the lamp, but lives on, after the death of 
the body — is it so ? ” 

“Yes,” answered she; and endeavored, in as clear and 
simple a manner as possible, to bring forward the arguments 
Plato had left, for the immortality of the soul. 

She did this, relating to Medes, and simplifying to his 
comprehension, the contents of Plato’s book on the dying 
Socrates. The old slave listened with eager attention. 
He did not understand much of the theoretical arguments, 
but all the more keenly and deeply did he comprehend the 
figure of Socrates himself. He saw the philosopher the 
hour before his death in the prison, surrounded by his 
young friends — the truth-seekers, come to hear, and fulfil 
their loved teacher’s last wishes, and be near him when he 
died ; their complaints and tears are restrained by his own 
happy composure, and give way to a presage of the higher 
world now so near them, an indescribable mingling of joy 
and pain ; a deathly, sad assurance of victory and victorious 
transport. It is under the influence of this state of 
mind, while the jailor grates the poison for the death-cup, 
that Socrates, leading the conversation upon the immor- 
tality of the soul, requests his friends to express their 
ideas and doubts, and replies to them. When the conver- 
sation is finished, he goes calmly to bathe, informs himself 
of what he should do to alleviate the working of the poi- 
son, takes farewell of wife, children and friends, calls in 
the jailor, who with tears gives him the cup, which he 
empties without reluctance, after praying to the gods for a 
propitious journey to the other world. He reproaches his 
friends mildly, for the tears they could no longer restrain, 
and just before his eyes close, begs his disciple, Cito, to 
offer in his behalf, to the god of health, that sacrifice, which 
convalescents were accustomed to make. 


346 


The Last Athenian. 


Hermione added, as she finished this description : 

“ You see, Medes, that Socrates solved his problem, not 
only by reason and investigation, but by his life and 
death. With ripe wisdom, he united an inward piety; 
by his pure morals, desires and habits of truth, he was 
already, in this world, a citizen of the higher, and a partaker 
of immortality. If you are not pacified by the reasons now 
adduced, think of Socrates himself, and this thought will 
chase from your soul every disturbing doubt. The fear of 
death does not become such a reverend white beard, as you, 
my old friend.” 

“ You are right, my mistress,” said Medes, wiping away 
the tears which the description of Socrates’ death had 
drawn from his aged eyes. u I thank you. You have 
given me peace. That Cimon cannot be a philosopher, but 
a prattler and a busy-body. Simple as I am, I cannot now 
understand, how I could be disturbed for a moment, by his 
words. It is strange that you, young girl, whom I have 
trotted on my knee, should be wiser than the old man with 
his white beard, who stands before jmu.” 

From Hermione, Medes went to his son Ochus, who 
already lay in the deepest sleep; but the old man shook 
him till he awoke, in order to tell him that Cimon was a 
tattler and a busybody, and that Hermione had contra- 
dicted all that Cimon had said. 

“ All right, father. But I am young, and need not think 
about such things,” answered Ochus, and turned over to fall 
asleep again. 

That night, Medes enjoyed an unbroken rest, troubled 
no longer by doubts. The next day, also, he was calm, 
and thought no more of Cimon. But after a little while, 
the recollection of the conversation with him, returned, and 
Medes began again to ask himself if Cimon might not pos- 
sibly be right. The reasons which Hermione urged, he 
did not understand ; but he deemed it possible that they 


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347 


were not conclusive : human reason is weak, indeed, and 
easily allows itself to assume the wished-for, as the true. 
Socrates himself, might have been a victim to delusion. 
Medes had forgotten to ask Hermione if the philosophers 
possessed complete certainty in regard to immortality, or 
had only arrived at a degree of probability. He felt within 
himself that he could not be satisfied with the latter, but 
must possess the fullest certainty, — a certainty as unques- 
tioned as if a god had appeared and given it to him. 

On this account, he met his master, one fine day, with 
the question if the immortality of the soul is certain, or 
only probable. 

“ My friend,” answered Chrysanteus, “ if probability is 
not sufficient for j~ou, change it, by faith, to certainty. A 
rational faith is pleasing to the gods ; it is an act of daring 
to win it, but to dare in this cause is a praiseworthy 
action.” 

“ But why,” asked Medes, “ do not the gods give us 
complete certainty about that which is necessary for our 
happiness ? ” 

“ Answer me another question,” said Chrysanteus. 
“ What do you think of a servant who does his duty, only 
from fear of punishment or hope of reward ? ” 

“ Most servants do this, master.” 

“ And why ? ” 

“ Because they do not love their masters.” 

“ But if they loved them, would they not do their duty 
from love, instead of fear ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Is not God a master, whom men, his servants, can 
love ? ” 

“Yes, indeed.” 

“ Well, He has, then, the right to require that we obey 
him from love, not from fear or the hope of reward. For 
an earthly master, it may be enough, that a servant does 


348 


The Last Athenian. 


his work, without regarding the disposition he brings to it. 
The Master of the world, on the contrary, cannot be made 
rich or poor by the daily labor of men. That work which 
avails in his sight, is the purification of the heart, and the 
ennobling of the soul. This, however, is not promoted, but 
hindered, by calculations upon a future life. We must act 
as if we were perishable beings, doing good for its own 
sake. The man who doubts immortality, but does good 
because he has gained a perception of its divinity, is more 
pleasing to the gods, than he who believes in immortality, 
and is driven to the same acts by hope or fear. 

Chrysanteus’ words did not satisf}’- Medes. He had 
hoped to gain complete certainty from his master. 

“ So it is possible after all, that I shall go out like the 
lamp, when I die.” 

This thought haunted him incessantly. He remembered 
what Cimon had said of the Christians. It would be a 
small matter to them to give complete assurance of the 
soul’s immortality. Medes began to think about seeking a 
private interview with Theodorus, or some other Christian, 
fully initiated into the mysteries of their religion, perhaps 
with bishop Peter, who, according to what was said, had even 
waked up Simon, the pillar-man, from the dead. Medes was 
kept from this step only by the thought of his master, whom 
it would, without doubt, displease. But at last lie could no 
longer bear his anxiety. He determined to visit Peter at 
the first fitting opportunity. 

This offered itself very soon through Alemene, who had 
scarcely discovered the cause of the old porter’s scruples, 
before she determined, as a pious, though secret Christian, 
to avail herself of it prudently, to gain a proselyte for 
Christianity. 

It was not long before Medes conquered his circumspec- 
tion. He followed Alemene, one evening, to bishop Peter, 
not to become a Christian, as he thought, but to gain that 
perfect assurance for which he pined. 


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349 


But he was here convinced that .this assurance and Chris- 
tianity were inseparably connected. Faith in Him crucified, 
was the condition of immortality. “ Whosoever believeth 
on me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.” 

Peter was eloquent, and fired with zeal to complete the 
old slave’s conversion. Inconsiderable as this proselyte 
might seem, to win him, was yet to gain a victory over 
Chrysanteus, to humble the proud enemy during the dis- 
comfiture of the church, to introduce Christianity into his 
own house, and by this, give tangible evidence of its irre- 
sistible power. 

Medes, himself, only needed to hear Peter once, to long 
to hear him again. As often as the opportunity occurred, 
he renewed his visits to the Christian bishop. The doc- 
trines into which he was here initiated, were so lofty and 
comprehensive, and yet so clear, that he seemed' to under- 
stand them all. 

And as to immortality, was it not God himself, who 
spoke these words : “ Whosoever believeth in me, though 
he were dead, yet shall he live.” What were the evidences 
of philosophy, and the uncertain results of human thought, 
to such a declaration ? 

Old Medes became a Christian, and his name was 
entered in the book of the catechumens. 

The bishop exhorted him to follow Alcmene’s example 
for the present, and conceal his faith. He made the 
attempt, but was not long successful, for this religion now 
filled his whole soul, and was his entire joy. Unable 
either to dissemble to his loved master, or submit to the 
customs of the family connected with the old religion, he 
confessed one day that he had gone over to Christianity. 

Chrysanteus was painfully surprised at this announcement. 
The phenomenon however, was by no means singular. He 
had lately observed that many of those initiated into the 
Eleusinian mysteries, instead of being strengthened in 
22 


350 


The Last Athenian. 


their religious convictions, had hastened to embrace Chris- 
tianity. The numerous desertions from this religion, 
which accompanied the accession of Julian, seemed only to 
have purified it from a mass of dross, which was replaced 
by numbers of ardent and honest prosetytes. When the 
outward power of religion was broken, its inner might 
seemed to be multiplied many fold. 

Young Ochus soon followed his father’s example, and so 
won Alcmene’s hand. Chrysanteus presented the new pair 
with the farm before mentioned, in the valley below the 
villa. Here they established themselves, together with the 
old porter. The philosopher’s house was thus freed from 
the intruding enemy. But the separation was painful on 
both sides. Medes did not thrive upon his own threshold. 
He went almost daily to the adjacent villa, and seated him- 
self upon his old place, now held by a new porter. The 
faithful old servant’s eyes were often filled with tears when 
Chrysanteus appeared and passed him with a cold greeting. 
Alas ! he has driven me from his heart ! thought the old 
man. Hermione, however, was the same towards Medes as 
ever. But the strife between his newly accquired fortune 
and the bitter separation, w T as too severe for the old man. 
In about two months after his removal to the farm, he was 
no longer among the living. 

The religious discourses which Chrysanteus and his 
friends began to hold, in accordance with the manner of 
Christian priests, gained many hearers, not least among 
that class for whom they were especially designed — the 
poor and ignorant. Here he laid aside all speculative 
investigations, and introduced the practical side of his doc- 
trine, as a finished and complete religious system. He pro- 
claimed one only, Almighty God, whose unity is broken as 
the sunlight in the rainbow, into a multitude of Divine 
powers, to whom the fathers had erected altars and temples. 
He spoke of religion, as man striving toward God, and 


The Last Athenian. 


351 


towards the realization of his own better nature, which 
Chrysanteus, with all educated heathen, conceived to be the 
image of God.” * This is realized by means of truth, 
beauty and freedom. Religion is not only the voluntary 
submersion of the soul in God, hut an endeavor to realize 
God’s designs in the outer world. For the pious man 
therefore, the whole of life is a religious exercise, which 
embraces within itself, philosophy, art, labor and politics. 

He spoke also upon the fall of the human race, and the 
necessity of an atonement. But this atonement has not, as 
the Christians say, occurred at any one definite period of 
time, but began with the honest repentance of the first 
sinner, and has been completed by the image — more clearly 
defined with every generation — of the moral ideal man. 

Ch^santeus’ discourses were received with great applause 
by his own friends and disciples. The majority of educated 
heathen, however, decried them from personal feelings, and 
because the current had now turned against him. 

But the populace, for whom his religious instruction was 
especially designed, remained cold and inaccessible. They 
did not understand him. Their religious necessities, if 
they had any, were not satisfied ; others were repelled 
by the strict morals he required ; his exertions bore fruits 
the opposite of thosfe he wished. If he rested a moment in 
ignorance, Theodoras was at his side, unmerciful enough in 
behalf of truth, to take the scales from his eyes. 

When to this is added the constantly increasing displeas- 
ure and opposition which Chrysanteus experienced from the 
citizens, in his attempt to introduce his plans of reform, it 
will be seen that his position, even under the apparent pre- 
ponderance of the old views, was by no means a happy one. 
He concealed his sorrow and stifled his distress beneath a 
never-flagging industry, but it was with secret dread he 
received every letter from the theatre of war, for he was 
* Thus Ovid calls man “ an image of the all-directing gods,” a 
being born of “ divine seed.” 


352 


The Last Athenian . 


filled with fear for the life of Julian, surrounded by dan- 
gers, threatened both by hostile sword, and secret dagger. 
Yet, on this life hung all ! 

He dreamed not yet how his daughter Hermione, — how, 
eveu she, his pride, his joy, his only confidential friend, 
maintained an inward strife, that she might not be carried 
away by that unseen power, to resisting which he had 
devoted his life. It was she, who, in his dark moments, 
chased the clouds from his forehead, and shed oil upon his 
hope. Would she, also, some day desert him ? 

He dreamed not that Philip lived, that Philip was a 
Christian priest, educated and imbued with the principles 
which philosophy despised : — blind faith and blind obedi- 
ence, and that this son, whose memory he almost idolized, 
regarded his unknown father with abhorrence. 

He dreamed as little that Charmides, for whom he had 
again opened his fatherly bosom, and whose changed habits 
gave him the only unmingled joy he had for a long time 
experienced — that Charmides was baptized , and by this act 
united, with indissoluble bonds, to the Christian church. 

A man no longer of any importance, who, by day 
dragged stone to Aphrodite’s temple, and by night slept in 
a wretched hut on Scambonidse, thus gathered up, one by 
one, the threads of fate in his hand. 

This he dreamed least of all. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

CHARMIDES AND RACHEL. 

Charmides sat in the aula of his house, one evening, 
talking with Annaeus Domitius. 

“ And now, at' last,” said the proconsul, “ a few words 


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353 


about our mutual friends. I have lost sight of many of 
these amiable and joyous personages since I left Athens 
and returned to my Corinth. So, my friend, how is it — to 
whom shall I give the first place?” 

“ Olympiodorus ? ” 

“ Olympiodorus ! Let us not speak of him. He is per- 
fectly incorrigible — ” 

“Yes, he continues to write bad epigrams.” 

“ And continues his wild life,” said Annaeus ; “ I know 
it. I met him this very day. He is, as I said, incorrigible. 
Just think ! He has written a new love song, against poor 
Jupiter. What godlessness ! He read it to me. I could not 
but disapprove of it and warn the author. Thereupon, he 
invited me to a quail-fight. I fell into the snare, for the 
flesh is weak, my Charmides. I found, alas ! too late, that 
the quail-fighting was only the prelude to one of those 
bachelor entertainments, which you know, I abhor. I have 
just come from it. I need not tell you how it passed off, 
nor who were the choice spirits of the occasion — Olympio- 
dorus, Palladius, Athenagoras, and those other indefatigable 
veterans, — the devotees of pleasure, — around whom I saw, 
to my despair, that a younger generation of hopeful or hope- 
less, Epicureans had grown up. They complained that you 
as well as I had deserted our old banner ; but they were 
just enough to admit that you had a powerful reason for 
such treachery. Thrice happy Charmides, who shall, some 
day, lead home the rich Hermione as bride ? But speaking 
about brides, my friend, can you guess where Praxinoa is to 
be found ? ” 

“ Ho, I have never troubled myself to inquire.” 

“ As you know, she was banished from Athens by Chry- 
santeus. How amazed was I when, a few days ago, in visit- 
ing the celebrated temple of Aphrodite at our Corinth, I 
discovered her among the priestesses there. She is yet very 
enticing — net for me of' course, who am a faithful husband, 


354 


The Last Athenian. 


and have had my gaze open to the immortal — hut I know 
from experience, that old game has a certain precedence to 
new. And speaking about old game, — where can poor 
Myro be ? She also seems to have vanished. The life of 
the poor girls is like the ephemera. But where do they all 
go to ? ” 

“ What an innocent acquaintance with the world you 
exhibit,” said Charmides. “My good proconsul, you 
remind me of the wolf who turned over a new leaf and was 
honest, after he had lost his teeth. Myro has gone the 
road appointed by fate for all such, only somewhat sooner 
than her sisters. Sickness robbed her of her beaut} 1 ". 
Olympiodorus, who was her particular friend, told her one 
day that she was ugly and gave him ennui. She disap- 
peared after that, and where she went, I know not. She is 
seen no more upon the sunny heights. Perhaps she 
dwells somewhere in the gloomy deep. But let us speak 
no more about her. How is the health of your beautiful 
wife, Eusebia ? ” 

“ Excellent, as long as I permit her to visit here, in 
Athens. She is, alas, hopelessly entangled in the errors of 
Christianity, and would die, if she did not, once a week, 
hear that rascal, Peter’s, hell-fire sermons. I have not 
wished to prevent her satisfying her caprice according to 
her taste. It is my duty to do everything for her happi- 
ness.” 

“ That is where you are wise. The pious Eusebia can 
be a powerful advocate for the apostate Annaeus, if fate 
should decree that a Christian emperor — ” 

“ Silence, my friend. No high treason, no such 1 orrid 
suppositions 1 ” 

“ And with her prayers it may be possible that the pre- 
fecture of Egypt, which Julian has promised you, would not 
depart from your hands — ” 

“ Your political insight is great, but do not cast such 


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355 


words of wisdom upon the winds ! Let us speak of some- 
thing else. Do you see, my friend, that I have grown 
lean ? ” 

“ No, by J ove ! It is entirely impossible for me to dis- 
cover it.” 

“ Or perhaps, more correctly, I have ceased from further 
expanding my form. I work like a slave against my own 
flesh. And can you guess the reason ? To retain that 
agility required by a warrior. Julian’s laurels excite my 
envy. They give me no rest. I, even I, must acquire 
laurel garlands and mural crowns.” 

“ I wish you joy in accomplishing your object. May you 
be happier than Augustus, and more virtuous than Trajan ! 
When do you intend to hie to the camp ? ” 

“ Ah, by Hercules, not for a year. The war against the 
Persians does not please me. I prefer the Franks and 
German barbarians, and hope to the gods, they will again 
begin stirring themselves. While I pass my days in this 
peaceful Achaia, Pylades, my client and ward, threatens to 
gro\v over my head. He has already become illustris and 
clarissimus , the same as I, and commands now a division 
of the imperial cavalry. Some fine day, this upstart will 
get ahead of me, if I do not shoot upwards as quickly as 
he. It is time to commence growing,” said the proconsul, 
patting his bald pate. “ One harvests no honors in the 
affairs of peace. He is overlooked and forgotten, when he 
devotes himself to such a simple matter as the improvement 
and development of the province of Achaia. The very 
gods, themselves, for whom I have sacrificed so much — ” 

“For example, your convictions as a catechumen — ” 

“ Just so.” 

u And your theological studies — ” 

“ Exactly.” 

“And ’still more, hecatombs of the fattest oxen — you 
have, next to the emperor and Chrysanteus, been the most 
liberal sacrificer in the Roman empire.” 


356 


The Last Athenian. 


" Exactly, exactly, and yet these unthankful gods forget 
me ! They have obtained me an autograph letter from the 
emperor, very flattering to my vanity, to be sure — but — 
enough. I will have war, and win laurels.” 

“ You are right. You need war. Peace casts no impe- 
rial mantle in your way. What is the prefecture of Egypt 
to the emperor’s purple ? It is the legions who, in our day, 
are both senate and people.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ You are rich, Annseus — ” 

“ Oh, not out of measure.” 

“And liberal,—” 

“ You flatter me.” 

“ No, I mean that you are liberal, when liberality fur- 
thers your designs. Piches and liberality are qualities 
which always win the soldier heart, and have now a still 
greater opportunity of doing it, since Julian has by no 
means spoiled his armies with inordinate presents. Let 
us proceed in the enumeration of your excellent qualities. 
You have a winning way and a talent for making yourself 
liked by the crowd.” 

“ Good. And further ? ” 

“ You are virtuous with the virtuous, shameless with the 
shameless, patrician among patricians, and plebeian among 
plebeians — ” 

“ Cliarmides you exaggerate my merits,” said the pro- 
consul, modestly. 

“No, no ; I do not exaggerate in the least. You are 
Homoousian and Homoiousian, according to circumstances. 
You acknowledge many gods, one god, or no god at all, just 
as events bid — ” 

“ Charmides, you strew roses at my feet — ” 

“ You are sagacious, foreseeing, crafty, world-wise, cun- 
ning, industrious, indefatigable, calm and cold-blooded, — 

“ Hold. I sink under the weight of so many attributes. 


The Last Athenian. 357 

Increase them not, I beg you ! Lay not another stone 
upon my burden, Charmides ! ” 

“ I believe also, that you are brave, and possessed of mil- 
itary talent. What do you say, yourself.” 

“ In this respect, my convictions coincide with your 
own.” 

“ Well, what is there lacking then, my Annaeus, to make 
you owner of the head of your Charmides, and of all other 
Roman citizens ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ That you, a patrician, and descendant of Seneca, with 
old Roman blood in your veins, ought to be able to win the 
same fortune, which has fallen to the lot of Illyrian peas- 
ants’ sons, and Arabian robbers.” 

“ Charmides, you speak in riddles. I do not understand 
a word of what you are saying.” 

“ 1 foresee the possibility that the diadem shall adorn 
your locks.” 

“ My locks ? Wicked friend ! My locks are offered up 
on the altar of the state, and a profitless theology. My 
head is bald as Julius Caesar’s.” 

“ Well, do as he. The diadem is worth striving for, 
because it would, at least, hide your naked pate ! ” 

“I begin to understand, and must warn you. Your con- 
versation approaches high treason. Julian, my friend, is 
younger than I. Let us not play indiscreetly and foolishly, 
before each other ! ” 

“ The Persians are good shots, and the Christians accom- 
plished poisoners. Prophecies are flying about, which do 
not promise the emperor a long reign.” 

“ Guard your tongue ! The gods save the emperor’s life ! 
If you continue with your godless speech, I must depart 
and renounce the frugal supper, which I have reckoned 
upon enjoying this evening, in your pleasant company. It 
is already dusk, and I do not return to Corinth till to- 


358 


The Last Athenian. 


morrow. I have moreover a special errand to you, I must 
not forget. You know my weakness for Eusebia. Eusebia 
has, among other caprices, that of wishing to surround her- 
self with handsome faces. She has seen your young 
Alexander, and exhorted me to buy him. What is your 
price ? ” 

“ I will not sell him.” 

“ Pshaw, you only say this to make me more anxious. 
At supper, however, your heart will be softened. We will 
defer our negotiations till then. You have probably re- 
nounced the enjoyments of gaming ? ” 

« Yes.” 

“ I might expect this from the future son-in-law of 
Chrysanteus, and Hermione’s betrothed. We would, other- 
wise, play for the slave. Extraordinary fate ! How we 
both have been changed within a short time ! We are now 
steady and moral men. For myself, I count it by no means 
a merit, for I am forty years and over — I am past my 
prime. I speak of it only as a wonderful proof of the 
talent of two individuals to transform the world and infuse 
into it a better spirit. As is the emperor, so are his people. 
And what a faithful guardian the emperor possesses in 
Chrysanteus ! He puts us to school and watches, switch in 
hand, over our conduct. The noble Chrysanteus, I cannot 
sufficiently praise him. The thought of him has entirely 
quenched my sensual nature. I now study my Cato at 
leisure moments, between the duties of office, and suffer 
much, lest I may not participate in the divine ecstacy. 
You might drop a hint about this to Chrysanteus, next 
time you meet him. I wish him to know the proconsul of 
Achaia to the bottom. How is it ? Does Chrysanteus 
correspond as briskly as ever, with the emperor, in spite of 
marches, and the clash of arms ? ” 

“ Yes, my friend.” 

“ All the better.” 


The Last Athenian. 


359 


While the conversation was continuing in this strain, 
Alexander announced supper. This was of such a striking 
simplicity, that the proconsul suspected Charmides of jok- 
ing with the severity of morals the proconsul now feigned. 
Annfeus, however, held a good mien ; poured out, with pious 
face, the usual libations to the wine god; spoke of the neces- 
sity of accustoming one’s self in time to the hardships of 
campaigning ; and determined within himself to invite 
Charmides to Corinth, there to surprise him with a supper 
of the same ascetic character. 

After the meal was finished, Annaeus left his friend 
Charmides, and betook himself, like a good husband, to his 
Eusebia, to sup for the second time, in company with her. 

Soon after the proconsul’s departure, Charmides threw on 
his mantle and left the house. 

The evening sky was starry clear, except in the west, 
where a black veil of cloud hung over the horizon. 

Charmides went a little way down Piraean street, and then 
through one of the arched portways in the ‘Long Walk’ 
to a deserted field, watered by the brook Ilissus, and 
shaded by ancient trees. 

“ I came somewhat late to the rendezvous,” thought he, 
“ but I doubt not, I shall still find her on the appointed 
spot. It looks like rain. All the better. It will shorten 
our meeting. 0 ye gods, let it result happily to both her 
and me ! ” 

With, this prayer he directed his course to a group of 
willows on the margin of the brook. He stopped here and 
looked around. 

“ Can she have gone away ? ” he thought, as he saw 
nothing, and all was silent around him. Has she been 
wounded by my delay, or terrified by the darkness and soli- 
tude ? All the better ! But no, I must not congratulate 
myself at postponing the inevitable. If she is absent now, 
to-morrow I will seek another opportunity for an explana- 


360 


The Last Athenian. 


tion. What must b& done, is best done quickly. She 
keeps up an incessant turmoil in my soul. This state of 
things must be broken up. 

He called Rachel’s name in a low voice. 

In a moment, he heard a rustling close by and discovered 
a figure in the shadow of the willows. 

He approached. It was Rachel. 

Charmides felt her tremble as he took her hand. 

“ Have you waited for me long ? ” he asked. 

“I know not,” answered Rachel, “but I am glad it is 
you. I was sunk in thought when I saw your form, and I 
fancied in the darkness, you were my father.” 

“ You are cold, Rachel,” said Charmides, “ I feel you 
tremble. Let me throw my mantle around yon.” 

“ Ho, keep your mantle, and let me freeze ! feel here, 
what it is you call cold ! ” 

Rachel laid his hand on her fever-heated brow. 

“ You are sick, Rachel, you must return home.” 

“ Yes, I am sick unto death,” Rachel replied with quiv- 
ering voice. 

“ Give me your arm and let us go hence. It blows chill 
from the sea. The night wind will harm you.” 

“Ho,” said Rachel, “the chill night wind is pleasant. 
It comes not from a cold and faithless heart. And what 
care you, if I am sick, if I soon die ? ” 

“ Rachel, how can you question me thus ? ” 

“ It is you — you, Charmides — who give me death. Are 
my words then, hard and unjust ? ” 

“ Rachel, you are agitated and know not what you say. 
Compose your thoughts and let us speak calmly to each 
other!- We meet now for the last time. Let us make use 
of the opportunity, to separate as we ought ; calmed, com- 
forted, and strong in a warm and honest friendship. Sit 
down here, b}^ my side ! Let us speak of the happy 
moments we have given each other, and of the dire neces- 


The Last Athenian. 


361 


sity, which compels us to separate. If you are not able to 
do this, and if the necessity still seems to you a cruel power, 
then lay your head on my breast, as on a brother’s, lament 
for the last time a fate which is unavoidable, and listen to 
your first chosen friend, who will exhort you to courage and 
strength. Why do you draw back your hand, my Rachel ? 
If, by this, you would express an accusation against 
Charmides, it is you, who are guilty of coldness and injus- 
tice. If I am culpable, it is only my love which has made 
me so. Tell me, Rachel, was it I, who built up the insur- 
mountable wall between you and me ? Ah, I little 
dreamed of its existence ; otherwise I should never have 
confessed my passion, never sought to win your love. If 
you accuse any one, it must he your father, who despised 
and repelled me as a stranger to his people. When I asked 
your hand, he refused it in the most shameful and insulting 
manner. I am weak enough to be still angry, when I 
recall that moment. He might have pronounced with less 
severity and scorn, the doom of our unhappy love. But at 
bottom he was nevertheless right, for there are inherited 
thoughts and customs which are hoty, and one must 
respect. You, Rachel, who are a child of Israel, and a 
pious man’s daughter, ought to know this.” 

“ I know,” said Rachel, “ I know we must part. The 
tone in which you speak convinces me best of this.” 

“May we he reconciled then, to our fate, and find our 
consolation in a faithful fulfillment of necessary duties. 
It was of this, I wished to speak to you. You are the 
daughter of a people who are scattered over the world, and 
whose only strength lies in their fidelity to inherited laws, 
and love for a common name. You have parents, whose hope 
you are, and whose joy you ought to be by obedience and 
tenderness. And if the demands they place upon your 
obedience are hard, obey them still ; your God will reward 
you, and send you a new and higher happiness for that 
which you now offer up on the altar of filial submission.” 


362 


The Last Athenian. 


“ 1 also believe this, but I have nothing more to offer, 
and no further happiness to desire.” 

“ Say not so, my Rachel ! ” 

“ Let us speak no more of this,” continued Rachel. 
u There is one thing, for which I can pray the God of my 
fathers, and that is death. I have given you all, Char- 
mides, except this wretched life. This is all I have left. 
Take it also, if it can give you any joy. For me, it is now 
only a burden. When I came here I still had a hope. I 
was weak enough to fancy, at times, that the cold man- 
ner in which you answered my letters was feigned; that 
you would tease me, to see my jealousy, that you were 
cruel towards me, because you loved me. j Sometimes, I 
would not believe, what all told me, that you loved Chry- 
santeus’ daughter, and were wooing her. I remembered 
that you had promised me eternal love, and would not 
believe that I could be betrayed by him to whom I had 
once given my heart, because he was unhappy and needed 
it. I sought an opportunity of more closely gazing at this 
Hermione, of whom people talked so much, and whom I 
begun to hate. Yes, she was beautiful, and worthy to be 
loved by you, Charmides ; but I said, to comfort myself, that 
my eyes are more radiant than hers, and that my locks, not 
hers, have the hue you prefer. She seemed to me also, so 
cold and marble-like, and I knew that you loved a warmth 
and affection like mine. It was only her wisdom, that I 
feared, but then I recollected what you said, that you loved 
my simplicity, because you yourself v r ere wise. I calmed 
myself, even in this respect, — at least for the moment, for I 
have been terribly troubled during all this time, by doubt, 
jealousy and melancholy. I have passed my nights in 
weeping, and my days in waiting. I have sat upon the 
balcony, with my eyes looking toward the hill upon which 
I saw you appear and beckon to me so many times, in days 
gone by. But why do I speak of this ? I see now as well 


The Last Athenian . 


863 


as you, that we must part forever. You love Hermione, 
not me. It is unavailing, then, to speak of my sorrows, 
or overwhelm you with reproaches. And as we now meet 
for the last time, I will return the ring you gave me, Char- 
mides. Here ! ” 

Rachel laid the ring in his hand, — the tears she could no 
longer restrain, threatened to stifle her. 

“ Rachel,” said Charmides, “ May the God of your fathers 
look into my heart and judge it ! If I ha/ve wronged 
you, may He punish me, as avenging justice requires, 
and if I seem hard towards you, may He decide if my 
actions are not guided by my desire for your happiness. 
What could I do, after }mur father had repulsed me, and 
blotted out my every hope of possessing you ? How could 
I act, after I began to see that holy duties toward your 
people, your parents and your religion, require you to 
remove from your soul every thought of Charmides? 
Rachel, you will forget me, and again he happy. A time 
will come, when your father’s will and your own, shall 
select a husband for you, worthy to possess your heart. We 
shall, then, perhaps see each other and recall the past, only 
as a dream of mingled bitterness and joy ; — ” 

“ Enough, enough ! ” exclaimed Rachel. “ Speak not so ! 
You are a wretched comforter, and your words, instead 
of calming me, create a tumult in my soul. I could tell 
you something which would freeze your blood, but since I no 
longer own your heart, I scorn your compassion, and will 
not speak to your conscience.” 

Charmides grew pale at these words, whose meaning he 
instantly guessed. But he dared not ask any question, the 
answering of which would confirm his foreboding. He was 
silent, and allowed Rachel to continue. 

“ Let us part, then. We have nothing more to tell each 
other. Farewell, Charmides ! Our last meeting is ended.” 

“ Give me your hand, and let me lead you hence,” said 


364 The Last Athenian. 

Charmides, as .Rachel remained sitting on the spot she had 
taken. 

“ No, Charmides,” she answered, “ leave me ! I wish to 
he alone with my thoughts, before I return to my home.” 

She turned away, and drew her veil over her face. 

“ It is raining,” said Charmides. “ The night is cloudy 
and cold. I must not leave you here. Let me accompany 
} r ou, at least to Piraean street.” 

Rachel made no reply. 

“ Shall we part in this way?” said Charmides, in an 
appealing voice. “ Our separation is necessary, but why turn 
it into a sad and depressing memory ? Can you not at 
parting say one word of reconciliation ? ” 

“ May God have mercy on us both ! ” 

“ Thank you, Rachel. I interpret these words as a sign 
of the returning peace and strength of your heart. But to 
leave you here alone, in the gloomy night ! Will you not 
follow me ? Have jmu not a waiting maid near by, who 
will accompany you home ? ” 

“ Yes, fear not for me. Go you, Charmides, to your rest, 
and sleep well, or to Hermione, and prattle with her. I 
will stay here, and if there is left me a wish, it is to be 
alone, that I may collect my thoughts ; for I go hence to 
the altar.” 

“ What do you mean ? Will you not return to your 
mother’s house ? ” 

“ Yes, as often as its door will open for her daughter. 
There will come nights, darker than this, when the thresh- 
old shall say : “ Take hack your foot,” and the door : “ I 
know you not.” 

“Alas, Rachel,” said Charmides, bending over her, and 
taking her hand, — “ my last heart-felt farewell, — my wish 
for a happy meeting in the future, when our wounds will be 
healed, and our common memory refined from its bitter- 
ness ! ” 


The Last Athenian. 


865 


“ May God save you from such a meeting ! It might 
perhaps disturb your happiness,” said Rachel, with the 
voice of a prophetess. 

Charmides threw his mantle around him and left his vic- 
tim. She sat immovable by the brook-side, near the group 
of willows, as long as Charmides could discern her through 
the darkness. The rain now fell in torrents, and the wind 
sighed in the old fallen wall, separating this deserted spot 
from Pirsean street. 

As soon as she was alone, she gave vent to her deep de- 
spair, which, restrained during the conversation with Char- 
mides, had given her an appearance of strength, and kept 
hack her tears. She wrung her hands, called herself a 
deserted widow, cast herself to the earth, tore the veil from 
her head, and scattered sand in her hair. Between these 
ebullitions, she wandered up and down by the brook-side, 
with convulsively clenched hands, and disheveled locks fall- 
ing like a mourning veil over her pale, emaciated face, till 
suddenly she stood still, and pressed her hands against her 
breast. She felt under her heart, a strange motion, whose 
import she foreboded. She had, during the last few days, 
more than once experienced the same feeling. 

Her strength deserted her. She hastened to seat her- 
self upon the wet turf, and lean against one of the old wil- 
lows, while her consciousness yet remained. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

CLEMENS AND EUSEBIA. 

We left Clemens in an adventurous situation with the 
beautiful Eusebia. He had come partly to obtain forgive- 
ness for the poor slave girl, who had broken the precious 
23 


366 


The Last Athenian. 


casket, and partly to reprove her for the cruelty she exhib- 
ited towards her servants, — a cruelty in the highest degree 
unworthy a pious and Christian mistress. 

But the sight of the beautiful woman, and her question, 
what he wished there at that late hour, together with the 
amazement she manifested, took Clemens entirely by sur- 
prise. He began to understand, that he had suffered his 
zeal and sympathy to lead him to a very improper step. 
He stood at the door, bashful and confused, and stammered 
out at last a very disconnected excuse. 

Eusebia was magnanimous enough to put an end to this 
embarrassment. She resumed her comfortable place upon 
the purple-cushioned sofa, and bade her devout, reverend 
brother, to leave his position by the door and tell his errand, 
which, without doubt, was very important, since he could 
not defer it till the morrow. 

Then without waiting for any explanation from Clemens, 
she began to inquire after the bishop’s health, praised his 
last sermon highly, and burst out into a bitter complaint at 
the oppression of the faithful. 

Meanwhile, Clemens regained his composure, and when 
Eusebia’s discourse fell upon the last-named subject, which 
was his own pet theme and the constant object of his 
thoughts, he gained the courage and desire to take part in 
the conversation, and joined heartily in her pious lament 
at the present condition of the world, and her clearly 
expressed hope for a speedy change. He was now able to 
do this without being dazzled by the splendor of the little 
gold-gleaming boudoir, or confused by Eusebia’s beaming 
glances, which shot flashes of anger and joy by turns, and 
were accompanied by the intonations of her melodious 
voice, changing according to the course of the conversation, 
and the nature of the subject. 

After this tete-a-tete had continued for a considerable 
time, Eusebia seemed to recollect that Clemens had come 


The Last Athenian. 


867 


on some special mission, and she inquired in a cheerful 
voice, what had occasioned this late visit of such a young, 
but reverend person. 

He now related very honestly his meeting with the 
young slave-girl, and her fear of returning home on account 
of the broken casket, and he begged Eusebia to pardon her 
this fault, of which she had rendered herself guilty by care- 
lessness and not by evil intent. 

The second part of his errand, — namely, to rebuke 
Eusebia for her severity towards her slaves,- — he determined 
to omit entirely, for during his conversation with the pro- 
consul’s wife, he had begun to be convinced that this cruelty 
was only a slanderous accusation, for such a thing would 
be impossible in so pious, beautiful and kind a woman. 

Clemens had thus discovered, that in addition to the ines- 
timable qualities of piety and kindness, Eusebia also pos- 
sessed that of beauty. 

But how amazed was he, at the change her whole being 
seemed to undergo, as soon as he mentioned the poor slave 
girl and the broken casket ! 

Anger painted itself clearly in those same features, where 
Clemens had just read piety and kindness. She seemed to 
have scarcely patience sufficient to hear him through, and 
when he finished, she arose and stamped on the floor with 
her little foot. 

She asked the young reader in a passionate tone, how he 
dared to take the part of a heedless, obstinate slave girl 
against her own mistress, and declared that her misconduct 
should be punished in the severest manner, as a terror to 
herself and a warning to the rest of the household. 

Clemens, however, did not allow himself to be disarmed 
by Eusebia’s anger. It astonished and pained him, 
that a woman so noted for her piety and her love of the 
divine word, could give up her soul to such unbridled 
wrath, when the matter in hand was not a theological 
question or the pure faith, but a paltry trifle of the toilet. 


368 


The Last Athenian. 


He expressed in mild, but distinct phrase, his surprise, 
and remonstrated with Eusebia, that if it were a natural 
and pardonable weakness, especially with woman, to give 
way to passion at the first moment, it was nevertheless, 
unworthy a Christian to adhere to a decision, inspired by 
the chief enemy of love and toleration. 

Eusebia did not seem inclined to listen to this remon- 
strance, but now directed her anger against Clemens also. 
She reminded him of her high rank in society, and of his 
own humble position ; she would not receive reproofs from 
so young and inexperienced a boy ; she would complain to 
bishop Peter of his unseemly conduct, if he did not imme- 
diately acknowdedge his error, and beg her forgiveness. 

During this ebullition of passion, she was perfectly suc- 
cessful in keeping herself within those bounds where anger 
allows itself to be coupled with grace and a fascinating 
demeanor. She appeared, in Clemens’ eyes, not a fury, but 
an empress. 

Clemens, whose pale cheeks were now mantled with 
crimson, fortified himself with the consciousness of having 
right on his side. He answered, that if the bishop should 
be informed of this interview, together with its cause, it 
would pain him much ; not on Clemens’ account, but on 
Eusebia’s, because the opinion he entertained of her pious 
and Christian life, would thus suffer material damage. 

He told her farther, that no social position can elevate a 
mortal above the divine word, and that its holiness is in no 
wise diminished, by the youth of him who proclaims it. 

He then asked if it were true, that during such ebulli- 
tions as he had now witnessed, she was guilty of cruelty 
toward her slaves. 

And when Eusebia answered this question with nothing 
but a defiant smile, (which, parenthetically stated, became 
her wonderfully, and probably had been studied before the 
glass,) the young reader threw aside all scruples, and began 


The Last Athenian . 


369 


a powerful rebuke, which by no means lacked eloquence, 
since words were given him by a burning desire both to 
chastise and reform Eusebia. 

She, in the beginning, seemed scarcely able to restrain 
herself from interrupting him. The defiant smile played 
long about her lips. But gradually it disappeared, and 
gave place to earnestness and attention. Her eyes were 
riveted upon the young reader, whose boldness and trans- 
port rendered him doubly beautiful. It was something 
new and exceedingly piquant, to receive rebukes from so 
young and inexperienced a person. 

“ It is possible, although uncertain, that her interest for 
the rebuker, finally gave way to the strength of the rebuke. 
Clemens had unconsciously become possessed of much of 
Peter’s fiery eloquence; but when his just indignation had 
at last spent itself, the chastisement subsided into mild 
exhortations ; so mild and pathetic, that they could not fail 
of making an impression upon Eusebia, whose piety was a 
search for the sensuous, and who in anguish, penitence and 
amendment, had discovered voluptuous remembrances of 
sin, more pleasant than the sins themselves. 

When Clemens’ voice became unsteady, and more and 
more tremulous, from the emotion he experienced in his 
heart, this vibrating tone imparted its thrill to the same 
chords of feeling in Eusebia ; and whether she felt herself 
aroused bjr his reproofs or not, the power of sympathy, and 
inclination of the senses, were alone sufficient to draw forth 
tears from beneath the lashes, which veiled eyes just now 
so defiantly gleaming. 

She hastily arose, cast herself at Clemens’ feet, seized his 
hand, and carried it to her tear-drenched eyes. 

Then followed, with broken voice, a confession that she 
had been a cruel mistress, a great sinner. She implored 
Clemens to forgive her haughty demeanor, and solemnly 
promised penitence and reform. 


870 


The Last Athenian. 


He was deeply moved by this sudden humility ; his eyes 
also filled with tears, and at the same time he experienced 
in his heart a secret joy at the awakening, in which he had 
been instrumental. 

Eusebia arose ; but the hand of Clemens, which she had 
taken, she still held within her own, as she returned to the 
sofa, and overpowered by her emotions, sank upon it. 

“ My sister,’ 7 said Clemens, “ I will pray that this, your 
awakening, may bear lasting fruits, and give you a changed 
disposition, which will conquer the temptations of your 
violent passions.” 

“ Do so, my loved brother,” whispered Eusebia. 

Sighing, she bent her head* with its wealth of curls very 
near his breast, and pressed, in the excess of her emotion, 
his hand to her heart. 

He felt how her bosom rose and fell at the storm of pas- 
sion within. 

His tenderness and sympathy were united with a feeling 
which he did not understand how to separate from it. He 
allowed his hand to be held without resistance, and when 
Eusebia again whispered, “ My loved brother ! ” it sounded 
like the sweetest music in his ears. 

Having at last succeeded in suppressing the tumult of 
her feelings, she induced him, with gentle force, to take a 
place on the sofa at her side. 

She would confess to her brother, reveal to him all the 
severity and injustice of which she was guilty against her 
servants, in order that by an honest penitence she might 
receive his absolution from her sins. 

And when Clemens had heard her confession, and sol- 
emnly assured her of forgiveness, she had yet one more 
request to make of the young reader. 

Blushing deeply, and with much embarrassment, she 
expressed a wish that this meeting might be kept a secret 
from the bishop. He was so austere, and she would not for 


The Last Athenian. 


371 


the world have the good opinion he entertained of her 
injured by his becoming acquainted with her violent temper, 
and severity towards her slaves. 

She had many times confessed to the bishop, and 
acknowledged all her other sins and weaknesses, but not 
this one. This forgetfulness, she sacredly assured him, had 
no other ground than her weak understanding, which 
hitherto could not see, that cruelty towards people born to 
slavery, and destined by Providence to obey others, could 
be wrong and culpable. 

She added, humbly, that this lack of discernment, this 
inability of comprehension, showed how greatly she needed 
a friend and adviser at her side, and she conjured Clemens, 
for whom she had now opened her heart, not to desert her, 
but become her faithful friend. 

%He might possibly have excused himself on account of 
his youth and inexperience, which made him less fit for 
such a place, but he had just won a triumph that gave him 
confidence in the power of his words ; he felt, moreover, 
such a deep sympathy for Eusebia, and would not now leave 
her without a leading wind for the voyage, after she had 
once turned her course towards a good harbor. 

On this account, he assented very modestly to her 
request. 

“ Ah, come then, soon and often, my dear brother,” con- 
tinued Eusebia, with a tender smile. “ I have so much to 
tell you, and so many sorrows to reveal, which now feel 
doubly heavjq because I must shut them up within myself. 
Regard me as a sister — as if we had not only the same 
Heavenly but also the same earthly father. You shall be 
my confidant, and hear every weakness, every sinful 
thought, which arises in my soul. Such a kind and confi- 
dential father-confessor I need, and have now found in you. 
Ah, come often and soon to your sister, dear Clemens.” 

How long had Eusebia awaited this moment, when she 


372 


The Last Athenian. 


could speak openly and without embarrassment, these 
words : “ dear Clemens ! ” 

She had often repeated them to herself in secret — in her 
boudoir, on the market — when she spied between the cur- 
tains of her palanquin the young reader in the ranks of 
some priestly procession, — in church, where she gazed upon 
him from the gallery, as he read a portion of the Scrip- 
tures. 

There lay also, much tenderness and a half-concealed joy 
of victory in the tone in which they were uttered. 

Her intention was, in her own eyes, the most innocent in 
the world. She thought her passion for Clemens of a pure 
Platonic nature, a spiritual love, entirely free from any 
earthly ingredients. She wished only the joy of being able 
to awake a reciprocal affection in the youth, especially if it 
were mixed, as in her own case, with an innocent spice $f 
enthusiasm. If, during the development of this mutual 
ideal relationship, the enthusiasm should become mixed 
with a few grains of other feelings, Eusebia would by no 
means pronounce a severe judgment either upon herself or on 
Clemens ; on the contrary, she admitted to herself, that she 
wished somewhat of this — would it not prove with fire the 
purity of her passion. She would then, to exercise her 
strength of soul, allow these feelings a certain play — let 
them freely form themselves from their chaos into figures, 
half heavenly, half earthly, permit them to advance and 
draw near in all their seductive beauty, but only to sink 
aud dissolve before the magic power of her will. Should 
they again assume form, they might again approach, but 
only to suffer the same annihilation. It would he a sport- 
ive contest, useful, and at the same time so sweet and entic- 
ing, yet in no way dangerous, if she kept the slightest 
watch over herself. For her intimacy with Clemens would 
in itself be of a religious nature, an exercise in piety, and 
a union in prayer. 


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373 


But should it go so far, that they both felt they had con- 
quered, and reciprocally discovered each other’s weakness ; 
how touching this discovery would be, how powerfully they 
would support each other in the mutual contest against the 
same passion, how warmly they would pray at each other’s 
side ! 

In the premonition of such a possibility, Eusebia shot a 
glance of the warmest sympathy, the most ardent sisterly 
tenderness, into Clemens’ large, melancholy eyes. 

He sat silently by her side, occupied with a wish at 
which he, himself, was surprised. He could not understand 
why — but he wished that Eusebia would again take his 
hand, and press it as tenderly as before, to her heart. 

An important step towards this affectionate intimacy was 
already taken. No one, not even Peter, to whom Clemens 
deemed it a duty to confess all his thoughts and acts, 
was to know anything of this meeting. Silence would be 
enjoined upon the waiting maid, who had been the instru- 
ment of bringing it about. There was thus, already, a 
secret between Eusebia and Clemens, and this secret must 
be extended over their future interviews. Eusebia bade 
him return soon and often, for she was in the greatest need 
of his spiritual assistance, his friendship and confidence. 
But since their meetings were to be secret, a late hour of 
the evening would be most fitting for them ; Eusebia was 
then first left to herself, and could enjoy solitude. The 
rear gate, through which Clemens had entered, would stand 
open for him, and as no window looked out on the court, 
across which he must pass, he need not fear any uninitiated 
glances. 

Eusebia told him this in a tone which sounded very 
sisterly, open and innocent. There lay in this secresy 
something charming for Clemens, which he could not define. 

He saw no reason for answering no ; and had a forebod- 
ing told him he ought to do so, he would at that moment 
have scarcely been able to make the sacrifice. 


3T4 


The Last Athenian. 


After he had left Eusebia, and when he found himself on 
his way, through the empty streets, to his colleague, Euphe- 
mius, he first recollected that the night was far advanced, 
and he was coming somewhat late to the holy work which 
awaited him. Perhaps Euphemius had already gone to 
rest. But he would not return to his home upon the Scam- 
bonidae, for Peter did not expect him that night, and he felt, 
for the moment, a certain unwillingness to recount to his 
foster-father, the manner in which he had passed these 
hours. But how should he explain his loqg absence to 
Euphemius ? And how, hereafter, should he find opportu- 
nity to fulfil Eusebia’ s request* for repeated visits ? Should 
he lie to Peter ? No, that would be a horrible sin, and the 
very thought of it a crime. 

After discussing this question for some time with him- 
self, he decided openly to tell his foster-father, that he had 
accidentally become acquainted with a person whose spirit- 
ual condition required his frequent presence. Who this 
person was, and all the attendant circumstances, formed a 
secret which he would pray his foster-father to respect, 
since it had been revealed to him, Clemens, as if under 
the seal of confession. 

When Clemens arrived at the dwelling of Euphemius, 
the short-necked presbyter already lay in his deepest sleep. 
Clemens found the Revelation of St. John open on the 
table, and beside it, the half-finished copy upon which 
Euphemius and Clemens were at work. Looking at it, the 
young reader saw that his black-haired friend had not 
written a letter during his absence ; on the other hand, 
Clemens saw several bits of papyrus, upon which Euphe- 
mius had employed himself in the noble art of punctuation. 
What Euphemius wished to draw out from the sphinx of 
the future, by means of the insight he acquired into this 
peculiar kind of necromancy, Clemens knew not, neither 
did he give himself any trouble respecting it. Without 


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375 


waking Euphemius, he seated himself and copied on, till 
sleep at last overpowered him, and he was compelled to go 
to rest. 

Euphemius, in reality, found greater pleasure in the art 
of punctuation, than in copying books. He had passed his 
evening in a very pleasant manner, and had, by no means, 
f been impatient at Clemens’ delay. 

The following morning, when they awoke and greeted 
each other, Euphemius did not ask any questions. Clem- 
ens thus escaped giving an account of the preceding eve- 
ning. Euphemius arose, dressed himself in his working 
clothes, and went to labor upon Aphrodite’s temple, for it 
was his turn, to-day, to participate in this. 

Clemens passed a great portion of the day alone, in 
Euphemius’ little chamber. Eusebia’s image stood, in 
lively colors, before the eyes of the young reader. His 
fancy occupied itself incessantly with it, and he reviewed in 
thought, time after time, their entire interview ; how 
handsome she was, both in the outbursts of her passion, 
and in her tears ! How her bosom heaved, as she laid 
his hand upon her heart ! and it was he, who humbled her 
hard disposition, and caused her to reflect ! 

He remembered, also, what she said, that she was 
unhappy from secret griefs, which weighed her down, 
because she could not share them with some confidential 
friend. He pitied the poor woman, and determined to be 
to her that friend she needed for her happiness. Could he 
not this very evening, be able to renew his visit, and steal 
away to the secret meeting? He thought of the little 
back gate which, by night, would stand open for him ; the 
silent court he had to pass over, the dark corridor, and the 
little gold-gleaming boudoir, with its beautiful penitent. 
If only an opportunity offered, he would not fail to hasten 
there. His brotherly duty toward sister Eusebia demanded 
this. 


376 


The Last Athenian. 


Employed with these thoughts, the hours flew by with a 
speed which astonished him. He must interrupt his agree- 
able contemplation, to hasten to his foster-father, the 
bishop, report to him, and receive his orders. 

When Clemens arrived at the cot upon Scambonidae, 
Peter was out ; but he returned at noon, and while they 
partook of their frugal mid-day meal, informed Clemens 
that he -must not hereafter take part in the work upon 
Aphrodite’s temple, and would pass his evenings, as he 
wished, with the copying of the Revelation, or in some 
other useful employment. 

The first order much astonished Clemens ; but he was 
commanded, and accustomed never to inquire into the 
bishop’s motives. If a “ why ? ” sometimes stole its way 
over Clemens’ lips, the answer was often only a piercing 
look, less frequently, an explanation, given in a tone which 
made it a reprimand. 

But Clemens was all the more pleased that the evenings 
were placed at his own disposition. He returned to the 
chamber of Euphemius, and passed the remainder of the 
day in musing upon Eusebia and the visions of St. John. 
Eusebia and mysticism fought for the precedence in his 
attention ; the former was compelled, however, after a 
strong resistance, to give way to the latter; but the victory 
was not complete, till Clemens had succeeded in sinking 
himself deeply in religious speculations, — that sea of sur- 
mises, forebodings and dark combinations, in which he 
sought the key to the mysteries of the book of Revelation. 
He was fully convinced that the strife described in it, 
between truth and antichrist, which was to precede the con- 
flagration of the world and the founding of the new Jeru- 
salem, had reference to the events of his own time, and 
that Julian was this very antichrist. All the more uncer- 
tain was he about the rest, and all the more he burned to 
solve the riddle. What, for example, did the extraordinary 


The Last Athenian. 


377 


number, 666 mean ? This was probably the keystone, 
which held together the dark vault of the mystic temple. 
Euphemius had given him to understand, that by the help 
of the cabalistic art it was possible to solve the riddles of 
Revelation, and unveil its inmost secrets. On this account 
Clemens felt a strong desire to learn this mysterious 
science. But the bishop had forbidden it, because the art 
was dangerous, easy to abuse, and of doubtful origin. The 
bishop had explained to him that there was a Divine cabala, 
which Adam was taught in Paradise, and by the help of 
which he gave to beasts and things names, corresponding to 
their nature and qualities; but there was also a cabala, 
invented by the devil, and spread by him among men. 
No cabalist could, with certainty determine, whether his 
art w r as the Heavenly or the devilish cabala, for both 
existed, and were cultivated — the latter, however, much 
more generally than the former. Such being the case, it 
was wisest to abstain from it entirely ; and Peter enjoined 
this as a duty. 

For Clemens, this sacrifice was the heaviest which had, 
as yet, fallen to his obedience. He was by nature prone to 
mysticism ; and the views in which he had been educated, 
had developed this disposition. The killing of reason and 
the suicide of intellect, were to him a duty, — the sole con- 
dition of his salvation from those heretical errors, with 
which the devil catches so many souls. His pious disposi- 
tion deprived of the guidance of reason, his rich, sensuous 
life, shut up within itself, so as not to be contaminated by 
the unholy life without, — his lively fancy, stimulated by a 
view of the world which filled nature with demoniac 
powers, must inevitably lead him along the dangerous road 
which winds through gloomy valleys, where madness lurks, 
like a tiger, ready to fasten its claws in the brain of the 
traveller. 

What Clemens was unable to attain, by means of the 


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forbidden cabala, he hoped to win in another, and at all 
events, a permitted way — by prayer. It was after earnest 
prayers for the enlightenment of his dark understanding, 
he made the childish attempts to interpret the hidden mean- 
ing of the Scriptures. Thus the copying went forward 
very slowly. He stopped at every punctuation mark, to 
ponder upon it and seek out its connection both with the 
preceding and the following one. With bowed head and 
clenched hands, he sat lost in misty thoughts, fruitlessly 
catching at the fog to fashion it into tangible forms. 
When his head ached with the bootless exertion of his 
unpractised machinery of thought, he again took refuge in 
burning prayer ; or overpowered by his fancy, lived an hour 
in the magnificence of those sublime pictures which describe 
the final battle of Christianity, the destruction of the world, 
and the last judgment. 

How violently these pictures must have affected his 
mind, when he thought that he was living in the very 
time they described ; when he expected every day would be 
that solemn and awful one, on which the last seal would jbe 
broken, and judgment pronounced upon the world ! 

Among these pictures arose Eusebia’s image. The 
woman fleeing from the dragon, had suddenly taken her 
countenance. Clemens awoke from his mysterious dreams. 
It was already dark. It was time to visit her. He drew 
the cowl over his head, and went out. 

The back-gate of the proconsul’s palace was open. The 
reader passed unnoticed, and without any adventure, to the 
boudoir of Eusebia. 

She seemed to be awaiting him. Joy beamed clearly in 
her eyes as he entered, and with sisterly confidence she 
bade him welcome. 

She was this evening clad in black, and her face expressed 
a mournful seriousness. The bashfulness Clemens felt in 
her presence was soon conquered by the open, hearty, and 


The Last Athenian. 


379 


humble manner in which she received him. The subject, 
also, which, as if of itself became the theme of their con- 
versation, was fitted to bring them near each other and 
awake a mutual confidence. Eusebia told Clemens the his- 
tory of her childhood, which afforded many touching pas- 
sages. 

She was, indeed, born in the bosom of wealth and luxury, 
but had experienced several misfortunes, which would call 
sympathy from a tender heart. She mentioned especially 
her tender childish years, and spoke with transport of her 
pious mother, who had been early taken away by death, 
leaving her, the poor little lamb, almost defenceless in the 
world. 

It was the memory of this mother, Eusebia affirmed, 
which had preserved her in the strife with the temptations 
of the world, and confirmed her in the true faith. 

Then it was Clemens’ turn to relate the simple history 
of his life. When Eusebia heard — what she already knew 
— that he was a foundling, deserted by his parents, and 
adopted as a foster-son by bishop Peter, her eyes grew 
moist, and she ran her jewelled hand through Clemens’ 
locks with deep sympathy ; and sister-like, caressed his pale 
cheek. 

Clemens told Eusebia how ardently he longed to discover 
his parents, were they yet alive. He had been told that his 
mother was a cruel woman. He would not believe it. Per- 
haps she was entirely innocent; perhaps he was stolen from 
her bosom while she slep*t ; or she had died in giving him 
birth, surrounded by strangers, whose wickedness stifled 
compassion for her child; but had she herself committed 
this unnatural deed, her soul must have been crushed and 
clouded by some terrible calamity. He asked Eusebia, — 
who was herself a woman, and knew a woman’s heart better 
than he, — if these suppositions were not probable, and was 
he not right, in still loving his unknown mother. 


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By such conversations the reciprocal confidence between 
them grew very rapidly. Hitherto, he had not found it 
difficult to obey the severe injunction, which his ascetic 
rules of life enjoined upon him — to flee the very look of a 
woman, did not Christian compassion, or his duty as priest, 
compel him to approach her. Such an opportunity had 
now T brought him to Eusebia. He could, without reproach- 
ing himself, sit by her side, and suffer her to press his 
hand. His wish to possess a sister — hitherto the only long- 
ing his fancy had united with a female form — was fulfilled. 
How happy he was ! What blissful emotions, never before 
dreamed of, did this possession call to life in his bosom ! 
He had never imagined sisterly affection so beautiful. 

While the conversation was going on, Eusebia, as if by 
accident, loosed his hand. It was almost as if he had lost 
her, although she still sat by his side. He seized the with- 
drawn hand and pressed it between his own. 

Opportunities of visiting her, offered themselves more 
easily than he had anticipated, and he allowed none of 
them to escape him. Neither Peter nor Euphemius seemed 
to mistrust anything. But a change had taken place in 
Clemens. Only a few days before, he would have deemed 
it a crime against the holiest duties, to keep a secret from 
his foster-father ; now it pleased him that Peter asked no 
question, which would compel him to intimate, at least, the 
relation he sustained to Eusebia. The secresy surrounding 
it increased its pleasure. But Clemens did not think of 
this. Perhaps he entertained a foreboding that the bishop 
would disapprove of his intimacy with the wife of Annseus 
Domitius ; but he persuaded himself that his only motive 
was pure and irreproachable — his promise to Eusebia. 

She treated with all seriousness her intention of selecting 
Clemens as her father-confessor. He was a pious youth, 
striving after nothing higher than saintly glory, she a great 
sinner ; what mattered then, the ten years by which the 


The Last Athenian. 381 

confessing child was the senior of her father-confessor ? 
Eusebia’s youthful appearance, her naive, childlike manner, 
the respect she showed him, the advice she sought of him 
in spiritual things, the light she desired upon dark points 
ot the true faith, had such an effect that Clemens deemed 
himself older than she, and regarded her as a younger 
sister. 

Among the sorrows which oppressed her heart, the first 
she revealed to Clemens, was one concerning her husband, 
proconsul of Achaia. His fall into the errors of pagan- 
ism filled her with the deepest grief. What should she 
do for his soul’s salvation ? She could now scarcely remain 
under the same roof with him, for he rigidly observed all 
the religious customs inherited from heathenish fathers. 
The household gods had resumed their place in his aula, 
and incense burned continually upon their altars. At the 
festivals of Apollo, the door posts and pillars were decked 
with laurel ; and at every meal, the cups were crowned. 
He participated in the solemn sacrifices, and partook of the 
sacrificial meats. He swore by the pagan powers. In a 
word, he had become a complete heathen. 

“ It was Chrysanteus,” said Eusebia, “ who principally 
caused the proconsul’s fall. Intercourse with this philoso- 
pher, and his daughter Hermione, had gradually contamin- 
ated poor An nie us, and brought him to the abyss into 
which he was now fallen. Eusebia related this with tears, 
and Clemens, as he heard it, felt his bitterness against 
Chrysanteus blaze up with increased strength. 

The first tokens of confidence Eusebia gave Clemens, 
were soon followed by others, which more intimately con- 
cerned her. It happened, now and then, that he met her 
in a very agitated condition. She had, during the day, 
given way to her violent temper, and was now a victim to 
an anguish bordering on despair. Clemens must summon 
all his resources to comfort her. On other occasions he 
24 


382 


The Last Athenian. 


surprised her kneeling in earnest prayer, and clad in the 
simple dress of a penitent. She often begged to confess, 
and the confession continually became deeper. She revealed 
not only the actions in which she feared some fault con- 
cealed itself, but gradually every feeling which agitated her 
bosom, and which she feared might be of a sinful char- 
acter. Clemens was confounded and overwhelmed by 
these communications. It was something charming to 
have a woman’s heart thus open to his e3 r e. It was a whole 
new world, into which he might look, — a wealth of phe- 
nomena suddenly laid open before him. And this world 
had its mysticism, if possible, more attractive than that 
which St. John disclosed to him. He could not define the 
emotions he experienced ; it was something inexpressible, 
something he had never before dreamed of, to have Eusebia 
thus confess to him. She did it in a tone of childish igno- 
rance of the real import of what she revealed; and yet her 
confessions clad themselves in a mystic garb, as if language 
had no words to clearly express them. In this garb they 
entered, unquestioned, the soul of Clemens. Many revela- 
tions of the sensuous life of this warm-blooded woman 
thus passed, becomingly veiled, into the breast of her 
father-confessor of nineteen summers, without his imagin- 
ing what guests they were, whom he received. 

One of the topics of conversation, in which Eusebia 
willingly engaged, concerned a life secluded from the world, 
which, under the last decades, had become very general 
among pious people, and without which, a perfect holiness 
could not be obtained. Clemens longed for this manner of 
life. He determined to enter upon it, as soon as he received 
his foster-father’s permission. He would repair to a desert, 
and live as a hermit. Religion requires the whole man. 
She desires that we should forsake all for her. The cares 
of the world draw us away from God. What better then 
than to flee them ? Could Mary be also Martha, or Martha 


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883 


Mary ? Clemens advanced these thoughts, and Eusebia 
seemed to he impressed by them, equally with himself. 
What had she to strive for in the world? Had not her 
husband nearly forsaken her ? She had experienced 
enough of the world’s bitterness, but its temptations 
reinairfed, and she was a weak woman, who feared strife. 
What better then, for her also, than to seek the solitude of 
the desert, where nothing disturbs the rest of the pious 
soul in God ? 

Clemens approved her words, and did everything to 
strengthen her decision. They agreed to withdraw from 
the world at the same time. They would, as brother and 
sister, accompany each other to the desert. Eusebia painted 
with rapture the life they would lead in their holy seclu- 
sion ; and Clemens listened with pleasure, but not without 
a certain criticism, for he corrected or improved the features 
in the picture, which did not correspond with the image his 
own fancy had drawn. 

“We will repair to some valley,” said Eusebia, “far 
from all the dwellings of men, where day after day will 
pass without any human eye beholding us.” 

“ No, rather a desert,” said Clemens. “ The Egyptian 
monks live in a desert. And there the sun does not shine 
behind a mountain when it rises. Its first beams light up, 
unopposed, the immense arid and desolate plain. It is 
then, that kneeling, we will bid the new day welcome. Its 
last beams will die upon the same plain. It is then, we 
will go to rest.” 

“ We will assist each other,” said Eusebia, “ when we 
arrange our grottoes, and lay out our own little gardens.” 

“ Yes ! we will live very near each other,” exclaimed 
Clemens. 

“ No, not very near each other,” replied Eusebia, “ that 
would not be proper, my Clemens.” 

“You are right,” admitted the jmung reader, with a 


384 


The Last Athenian. 


sigh, which Eusebia understood better than he. “ But we 
must not forget to choose our dwellings near some fountain. 
There are but few fountains in the desert, and we should 
be separated many miles, if we did not select the same.” 

u You are right. We will so prepare our grottoes, that 
the fountain will be the same distance from each. There 
we will meet once a day, when we go to draw water. We 
will then greet one another, pray together, and separate, to 
see each other again the next day, at the same hour, and 
upon the same spot.” 

“ But if either of us should await in vain the other,” 
said Clemens, “ then it is the sign that brother or sister is 
sick.” 

“ Or dead,” said Eusebia. “ Oh, may this not be ! We 
shall pray to die upon the same day, so that one need not 
miss and lament the other. Shall we not, my Clemens ? ” 

After conversations of the same edifying nature as the 
foregoing, Clemens’ rapture rose to the highest degree. 
Their interviews usually ended with mutual prayers. It 
happened thus one evening, after a mystic confession, a 
rapturous conversation, and reading of the glowing love 
songs to Christ and Mary, that Eusebia and Clemens sank 
down in prayer, side by side, and that in the overflow of 
their feelings, their lips met, Clemens knew not how, in a 
kiss. They both blushed, but the whispered words 
“ brother ,” and “ sister ,” bore conclusive evidence that it 
was only a sisterly kiss, which was customary, innocent, and 
permitted among the Christians, and the beautiful symbol 
of spiritual love. 

But this sisterly kiss possessed a quality which intoxi- 
cated Clemens. There must have been something in it of 
the nature of a strong and pleasant wine, or something still 
more powerful, for its effect would not cease, but was 
heightened by memory and fancy. When next he visited 
Eusebia, his look was that of an ardent lover, and he 


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385 


secretly longed for the ecstatic moment, when devotion, and 
their swelling emotions should, with a natural power, again 
compel them to that momentary delicious union. 

And the oftener they renewed their hours of common 
devotion, the shorter time this ecstatic moment was allowed 
to wait. It was as if practice contributed the more easily 
to call it forth. At last it came to be employed before 
the prayer, and seemed to consecrate it. Clemens scarcely 
entered the boudoir, before she received him with an 
embrace, warm enough to be sisterly, and he answered it 
with the full vivacity of a passion whose nature he misun- 
derstood, and upon which he therefore laid no restraint. 

He was sunk in a sea of rapture. St. John had now 
entirely yielded to Eusebia, and the copying of his Revela- 
tion progressed, in the hours allotted it, much more quickly 
than before, for Clemens no longer beat his brains about 
every word he wrote. The outer world was lost to his eye ; 
it was lost in Eusebia, and Eusebia did not appear to him 
as anything outward, but as- a part of himself. He had at 
last reached the point to which he had striven ; the world, 
with its temptations, was found for him no more. So he 
thought. Least of all would he have imagined, that the 
sensuality he would destroy, had now drunk up his wdiole 
life, that it governed every emotion of his soul, every drop 
of blood in his veins. 

He had formerly regretted that he could not retain and 
perpetuate that elevation of soul, caused by prayer and con- 
templation. When the devotional state relaxed, he deemed 
it a fall from Heaven to earth, from God to the world. And 
these relapses had of late happened oftener than before ; he 
knew not why, though it could easily be explained, since 
the continual use of the same ideas and conceptions, the 
same returning exercises of devotion, at last dull the soul 
and make it less receptive to their impressions. But now 
the case was different. Clemens lived in a perpetual rap- 


386 


The Last Athenian. 


ture ; the devotional moment was retained and perpetuated. 
His piety had found what it needed: a new and powerful 
stimulant. The sensuous religious hjmins to the virgin 
Mary, which were already sung by the Christian church, 
became his dearest reading — these, together with the Songs 
of Solomon, in which he could mirror his own feelings, and 
find his own experience impressed with a heavenly seal. 
For Clemens, who, before, had separated himself from every 
thing which could call to mind the existence of woman, 
there stood forth now the whole universe, the seen and the 
unseen, with woman’s features. Earth was Eusebia, and 
Heaven, Mary. Hymns called Mary the heart of the 
Trinity. It is to the heart, prayer is directed, whether 
made to man or Grod. What wonder, then, if everything, 
from the Creator to his hosts, vanished, for Clemens, in the 
Heavenly Virgin’s image. 

But the features, with which he pictured her to himself, 
were Eusebia’s, for anything more beautiful than these, 
such as they now were, he could not conceive. 

Eusebia gave him, one evening, her miniature, painted 
upon ivory, and not too large to be borne upon his breast. 
And there it found a place. But when he was alone, the 
likeness was taken out and became the object of insatiable 
regard. When he prayed, his eyes were upon it, for it was 
not only a picture of Eusebia, but of Mary. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CHRYSANTEUS FINDS HIS SON. 

Two months had passed since Clemens’ first visit to 
Eusebia. 

It was a hot day in August. The Christians were still 


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387 


at work upm Aphrodite’s temple. It was now nearly com- 
pleted, and its magnificent colonnades glittered in the sun. 

The work had been severe to-day, on account of the 
oppressive heat. The hardest of all the overseers was in 
charge. This man was not a heathen ; he was a Christian, 
but a Christian of the Homoousian persuasion. He had 
lost some brothers-in-the-faith, in the persecution which 
the Homoiousians had instituted, at the time of Julian’s 
accession. Perhaps it was the recollection of this, that 
heightened the shrillness of his voice, and placed the 
knotty cane in his hand. At all events, this cane was 
dilligently used to animate the laborers, whenever bathing 
in perspiration, and wearied by exertion, they flagged never 
so little. 

Now, in the hottest mid-day hour, a time of rest was 
granted to the workmen, and they were seen seeking shady 
spots to eat their dinner. 

Bishop Peter voluntarily participated in the work to- 
day. Clad in. a coarse tunic, he had hastened to every 
point where the work was heaviest, and the cane of the 
task-master seen swinging in the air. His extraordinary 
strength astonished the overseer ; and the zeal with which 
it was used, to spare the suffering Christians, would have 
excited his compassion, had not the helper been the most 
hated of all Homoiousians — their own bishop. 

During the hour of rest, Peter withdrew to a newly- 
erected, shady portico of the temple. Here he paced up 
and down in deep thought. He had yesterday received 
news from Rome, through a priest just arrived from the 
west. When the messenger left the eternal city, its bishop 
was confined to his bed. It was not to be supposed that 
the aged man could long survive, and intrigues were 
already weaving by those who hoped to succeed him. 
The Homoiousian congregation at Rome had gained quite 
respectable additions of late. The Athenian bishop’s 


388 


The Last Athenian. 


name was known and loved by them, and they would, with- 
out doubt, at the approaching Episcopal election, give him 
their votes. 

But the number of the Roman Homoiousians was still 
very inferior to the Homoousians. The death of Constan- 
tius had sensibly diminished the conversions from the latter 
to the former faith. Peter had no prospect of being 
elected at this time. But he was a strong man, and prob- 
ably had yet a long time to live. If a Homoiousian 
emperor should ascend the throne, everything would be 
changed to Peter’s advantage. His name was already 
known at Rome. Now was the time to prosecute untir- 
ingly the missionary work, already begun there. The 
pecuniary means he devoted to this, were not large, but the 
almost fanatical affection with which he was supported by 
his adherents was more potent than money. He would by 
no means despair of success. He could not be satisfied 
with less than the chief seat in the cathedral of Peter, and 
when this was gained, he would gather the reins of the 
world in his hands. 

All depended, however, upon the length of Julian’s 
reign. Peter could not but think it would be very transi- 
tory. If the heathen emperor did not lose his life in any 
of the dangers surrounding him in the war, to which he 
continually exposed himself, he must sooner or later fall 
a victim to the assassin. Peter knew well, that there 
were Christians in his body guard, who secretly sought his 
life. A skillful poisoner had lately obtained a place in the 
imperial kitchen. This Peter knew, through his friends in 
Antioch. Unfortunately, Julian partook of his soldiers’ 
humble fare, and carried no private cooks upon his cam- 
paigns. But when he should return from the war, it must 
occur to this strange man, who coupled the hardships of 
the warrior with those of the philosopher, to desire one 
imperial dinner prepared according to the rules of art. 


The Last Athenian. 389 

Then would be the moment for the newly engaged cook to 
gain the applause of Heaven and earth. Should he suc- 
ceed in secretly making way with the emperor, his name 
would silently be blessed; and were the undertaking dis- 
covered and punished, he was assured by the patriarch at 
Constantinople a place in the radiant circle of the saints. 
One day in the year would then be called after the martyr, 
and he would be for all time an object for the worship of 
devout Christians. 

But if all these plots against antichrist were unsuc- 
cessful, Peter had determined to see what he, himself, could 
do. He thought of his foster-son, the fanatical youth. He 
might place the dagger in Clemens’ hands. Clemens would 
not hesitate a moment in offering up himself for the sake 
of the church. But Peter instantly repelled this thought, 
for he had fastened hopes of an entirely different charac- 
ter upon this youth. There were, however, others, and these 
not so few, both priests and laymen, who could be used for 
the same holy cause. It was at all events impossible that 
the reign of Julian should be long. If it did not please 
God himself to set a limit to his dangerous life, this would 
unquestionably happen through the instrumentality of some 
one of the orthodox. 

During the religious persecutions at Athens, Peter had 
taken measures to avert every danger from Chrysanteus. 
This regard for the philosopher’s life was grounded in the 
plans the bishop had built upon his young foster-son. 
Clemens was the only son of Chrysanteus, and some day 
would be recognized as such. The only question was, when 
should this take place. The joy awaiting Chrysanteus at 
finding his Philip, whom he still mourned as lost, would 
receive a considerable admixture of bitterness at the dis- 
covery that this son was a Christian and a priest. Yes, if 
Peter knew Chrysanteus, this bitterness and pain must far 
outweigh the joy. It would be a blow to his pride, harder 


390 


The Last Athenian. 


than anything else. Peter had no fears that Clemens 
religious faith would be affected by this discovery. Hi? 
soul was firmly rooted in the most rigid ascetic Christianity, 
and no intercourse with his father and sister, no example, 
no teachings, no prayers, no threats could tear it from its 
mother earth. Peter would always be able to maintain his 
power over him. Should he notice the slightest wavering, 
he possessed the terrible means, which religion and scep- 
ticism offered him in common, to confirm his influence over 
a being, educated to weakness, dependence, and slavish 
obedience. 

Peter doubted not that Chrysanteus, in spite of his 
loathing for everything that bore the Christian name, would 
recognize Clemens as his lost son, Philip, whenever the 
proofs of his descent were laid before him. But it was 
one thing to recognize him as his son, and another to make 
him heir to his colossal fortune. Would Chrysanteus do 
this also ? Peter doubted it, on good grounds. It would 
be leaving, the powerful material weapon, he had restlessly 
wielded against the enemies of the ancient culture and 
religion — leaving it in the hands of these very enemies to 
be used against his own cause. The conflicts which must 
unavoidably arise between father and son, might also assist 
in weakening, perhaps in quenching, a father’s love, if it 
were met with disdain and disgust. And by the side of 
such a son stood a daughter, who had hitherto held the sol6 
claim to the inheritance, and who deserved and possessed 
her father’s unbounded love. Peter had heard it rumored 
that Chrysanteus had made a will, bequeathing half his 
property to Hermione, and the other half to the mainte- 
nance of the philosophical school in the Academia. This 
rumor was very probable, for it had of old been a custom 
among rich Athenians to remember this school in their 
wills, and Chrysanteus had a greater 'reason for so doing, 
since he was its supporter, counted himself among the fol- 


The Last Athenian. 


391 


lowers of Plato in the teacher’s chair, and saw in the 
Academia the mightiest means of restoring the old religion, 
culture and philosophy. What ought Peter now to do ? 
It was of the greatest consequence to him, that Clemens 
should come into possession of Chrysanteus’ fortune, for, 
from Clemens’ hands, it would soon pass over into Peter’s 
own ; and once in the enjoyment of it, no power on earth 
could prevent his ascending the bishop’s chair at Rome, 
after the imperial sceptre had fallen into the hands of the 
expected Homoiousian emperor. 

After such a fortunate transfer of the crown had hap- 
pened — and happen it must, according to Peter’s ideas — 
he felt certain of a happy solution of the problem of this 
inheritance. For Chrysanteus might make Clemens his 
heir or not — if he only recognized him as his son, a Homo- 
iousian emperor would not hesitate to assign the philoso- 
pher’s fortune to the young priest, through whom it would, 
sooner or later, pass into the possession of the church. 

Clemens probably would not live long. His earthly tab- 
ernacle was weak, and his temperament indicated an early 
death. His passion for mysticism helped to consume his 
oil of life, and the unavoidable conflicts with his father, the 
conflicting emotions to which his position towards the latter 
must expose him, would hasten his death. It would then 
be time for Pete^to produce the will Clemens had written 
and placed in his hands, making the church his heir, but 
giving to Peter, his foster-father, the unquestioned disposal 
of the property. 

There existed at that day, an old law, according to which 
no daughter could inherit. This law was too severe not to 
be, in time, forgotten, or at least, less frequently employed. 
But it w'as enough for Peter, that the law existed ; he, 
himself, would take care of its application to Hermione. 
But if Chrysanteus ‘had made any special testamentary dis- 
positions on her account, Peter was convinced that he 


392 


The Last Athenian. 


would withdraw or limit them, when he made the surprising 
discovery that his daughter’s husband was a Christian. 

Peter intended to give him this surprise upon the wed- 
ding day. This could not now he distant, for the betrothal 
of Charmides and Hermione had already been celebrated. 

“ Charmides,” said Peter to himself, “ is an instrument 
with which the Lord, through myself, will finally punish 
the arch-heathen and his daughter. Hermione loves him, 
and Chrysanteus cannot dissolve their union, after it has 
once been welded in marriage. But how unhappy this 
union will be, when Charmides finds himself deceived in 
the expectation of rebuilding his dilapidated fortune.” 

His passion for Hermione, if it had ever existed, must 
cool and give place to displeasure, — the natural fruit of such 
a disappointed calculation. His taste for dissipation would 
be awakened anew, if Peter knew his Charmides aright. 
How could the proud Hermione endure the burden of such 
a marriage. Her soul must surely bend or break, under it. 

In the former case- — bowed to the earth, hopeless and 
suffering — she could not long repel the only consolation 
found for such a condition. She could not resist Peter’s 
eloquence. She must listen to the Evangelists, and be con- 
verted. 

Then the daughter of Chrysanteus, as well as his son, 
would belong to the Christian church. Then the hated 
enemjr of Christianity would be humbled. He would be 
like a tree stripped of its bark, and robbed of its boughs. 

In the latter case, Hermione, like a flower broken by the 
storm, would soon wither and die. 

In either event, the bishop’s calculations upon Chrysan- 
teus’ property, had nothing to fear from her side. 

Peter dreaded only one thing— that Chrysanteus would 
die before Philip had been brought to light, and recognized 
as his son. 

Peter had very eloquent reasons of a personal nature, for 


The Last Athenian. 


393 


concealing Clemens’ birth for the present. He dared not 
reveal it as long as Julian was emperor of the Homan 
world, and the power lay in the hands of the heathen 
party. 

Only when the purple decorated a man whose pious 
mind knew how to subject worldly justice to the holy 
interest of the church and religion, would it be advis- 
able to take so important a step. For under present cir- 
cumstances, it was in truth not only possible, but very prob- 
able, that Peter, by a premature revelation of the case, 
would, in spite of his holy office, be accused and condemned 
as a run-away slave and a child-stealer. 

For a judge whose reason was clouded by heathenish 
darkness, would naturally pay no attention to the circum- 
stance, that the child had been stolen with the noble inten- 
tion of saving his soul from damnation. 

Still less would such a judge perceive that, had the inten- • 
tion been less noble — if it simply was a shrewd calculation 
upon Chrysanteus’ property — it ought, nevertheless, to be 
sufficient to justify the accused, since he had in view, not 
only his own advantage, but that of the holy universal 
church. 

It can easily be imagined how zealously Peter longed for 
the day, which should bring the news of Julian’s death. 

Peter was occupied with these thoughts as he paced to 
and fro, under the portico of the temple. 

He did not suffer himself to be disturbed by the over- 
seer’s bell, when it gave the signal that the workmen’s hour 
of rest had closed. As a voluntary participant in the toils 
of his fellow-believers, he was free to take part in the work 
whenever it pleased him. 

His contemplations were first interrupted, as, accidentally 
looking towards the street, he observed Chrysanteus and 
Hermione approaching. 

At the same time, he heard from the other side of the 


394 


The Last Athenian . 


portico, where the workmen were engaged, a sudden cry, 
and din of voices. He left the portico to see what had 
happened. 

The first person who met his gaze was Clemens, who had 
probably come in search of him. The reader’s cheeks were 
flushed with anger, and his demeanor as if he had chal- 
lenged some one to fight. 

The looks of all present were directed either to him or 
the overseer, who stood as if stunned, and pressed his hands 
to his head, from which the blood was trickling. 

Clemens, who had come to meet his foster-father, had 
witnessed, upon his arrival, a new exhibition of the task- 
master’s cruelty, and in a sudden ebullition of passion, had 
seized a stone, and hurled it at the head of the heretic. 

“ Fly ! Hasten ! Away ! ” cried the nearest Homoiou- 
sians to the young priest. 

Others gathered about the wounded overseer. 

“ Clemens, what have you done,” exclaimed Peter, terri- 
fied. “ Hasten away — to Euphemius, and hide yourself 
with him.” 

But Clemens was too excited to obey the bishop. With 
his wrath, was mingled confusion respecting his own act. 
Peter seized his arm, and taking advantage of the general 
amazement, was about to hurry him away, when a man, 
who stood looking on at a little distance, ran forward and 
prevented him. It was Cimon, the skeptical philosopher. 
He caught Clemens’ mantle with one hand, and the bishop’s 
tunic with the other, calling out : 

“ Ho, no ; be calm, my friends ! Why are you in such a 
hurry. Motion is only apparent, and it is no use to be 
fidgetty. You can’t get away, any how, you Christians — ” 

And when Peter released himself and Clemens from 
Cimon’s grasp with a powerful blow which felled him to 
the ground, he cried out with all the strength of his lungs, 

“ Murder, robbers ! Help, help all good citizens ! ” 


The Last Athenian. 


395 


The overseer, who in the mean time had collected his 
senses, now hastened forward, and caught the young cul- 
prit. Some citizens, who were attracted to the spot by the 
cries, joined him. Peter saw the impossibility of saving 
Clemens. He loosed his arm, and when he observed Chry- 
santeus and Hermione, who had now arrived, he retreated 
to the temple’s portico, there to observe what would take 
place. 

The overseer’s bloody visage told Chrysanteus that some 
deed of violence had been committed. He left Hermione, 
and hastened into the crowd, to learn what had happened. 
The overseer had been hit by a stone. Cimon, and many 
others, had seen the young Christian priest throw it, with 
evident ill-intent. Cimon, who, in his capacity as witness, 
made himself exceedingly important, declared with the 
greatest assurance, that the unhappy occurrence had not 
risen by accident, but with design. This was evident from 
the culprit's looks and motion, as he picked up the stone, 
and threw it. Yet, Cimon added, he spoke entirely from 
the stand-point of the senses. For his own part he doubted 
whether there was a stone in the whole universe, and if 
there were, whether it could be thrown, for it was very pos- 
sible that all motion was only a deceptive appearance. 

Chrysanteus turned from Cimon without listening to his 
nonsense. He was evidently surprised when he discovered 
who was the accused. 

The reader will remember Hermione’s decision, to gain, 
through Theodoras, information concerning the previous 
life of Clemens. But Theodoras, shortly after the meeting 
we have described between him and Hermione, had left 
Athens to visit the Novatian-Donatist colony, founded by 
Chrysanteus, in the mountainous district of Sunium. Onl) r 
the day before, had Theodoras returned to Athens, and 
hastened to impart to Chrysanteus the glad tidings of the 
flourishing and happy condition of the settlement. Hermi- 


396 


The Last Athenian. 


one who, in her joy, had not forgotten the young reader, 
then requested Theodoras to inform her respecting 
Clemens’ past life. Theodoras only knew that Clemens 
was a foundling who, in his tenderest years, had been 
adopted by Peter. 

But this information was sufficient to strengthen the 
presage of Hermione. Greatly astonished by it, she has- 
tened to her father, telling him all she had thought and 
learned about Clemens. 

This was in the evening, and on the following day, Chrj'- 
santeus and his daughter had repaired from their villa 
beyond Piraeus, to the city, to meet Clemens. 

They were now coming from Scambonidae, where they 
had called at the Homoiousian bishop’s dwelling, without 
finding him or Clemens at home. 

They had then proceeded to Aphrodite’s temple, hoping 
to find one or both of them among the Christians employed 
there. 

After Chrysanteus had convinced himself that the wound 
Clemens had inflicted upon the overseer was not dangerous, 
he turned to the former and asked : 

“ Are you guilty of this ? ” 

“ Yes,” answered Clemens, proudly. “ It was I, who 
hurled the stone. He is a heretic, that man, and I saw 
him abuse an orthodox.” 

“ If he did so, he shall be removed and punished,” said 
Chrysanteus. You should have come to me, and accused 
him. Instead of this, you have committed an act of ven- 
geance, which makes you amenable to the law. Reflect, 
young priest, how easily such a blow might have killed 
him. You might, at this moment, stand before me a mur- 
derer ! ” 

“ What then,” exclaimed Clemens, “ do you think I 
should blush for that? When I threw the stone, 1 meant 
to kill him. How do with me, what you will. I fear you 
not.” 


The Last Athenian . 


397 


u Unhappy youth/’ said Chrysanteus, turning pale, and 
looking at the by-standers, who had heard this dangerous 
confession, “ your reason is clouded. Your words cannot 
he accounted against you — My friends,” continued he to the 
crowd — “ blinded by a wretched fanaticism, he knows not 
what he says.” 

“ I know it all too well, ye Egyptians, who oppress 
Israel ! Ye compel us, as of old, to drag stones for Pha- 
raoh. Your task-masters abuse us. But those who lay 
their hands on the people of the Lord, are doomed to 
death. Moses killed an Egyptian who abused one of his 
people. It was the same Moses who gave us the holy law. 
And when he said ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ he could not 
have placed any heretic or unfaithful one under the protec- 
tion of this command, for otherwise he would have con- 
demned himself. Between you and us there is a war of 
life and death. You will outroot us, or we you. But our 
cause is that of the Lord, and victory is in His hand — ” 

“ Where is your foster-father ? ” inquired Chrysanteus, 
interrupting Clemens’ high swelling w r ords. 

" Do you mean Peter, whom they call their bishop ? ” 
said Cimon. 

“ Yes.” 

“ He was here a moment ago, and I will inform you, my 
Chrysanteus, that he is no less guilty than this boy. Just 
think ; he dared to strike down a free citizen of Athens, 
when the latter, burning with zeal for the law and per- 
sonal security, prevented this young culprit from escaping. 
There shall be a separate process upon this matter, as true 
as my name is Cimon. But here he comes, himself. He 
cannot deny it, for my friends here witnessed his conduct.” 

Peter now advanced with a composed bearing, greeted 
Chrysanteus and said : 

“ This youth is my foster-son. He has committed a rasli 
and dangerous ac\ I arrived on the spot just after it had 
25 


398 


The Last Athenian. 


happened. What will you do with him ? Will you take 
him before a court of justice, or will you permit me to 
reconcile the wounded man and punish my guilty son in 
the manner, to which I am in duty bound, as his superior 
and father. I assure you, the discipline of the church is 
more severe than the worldly law. He shall not remain 
unpunished if, pitying his youth, you deliver him into my 
hands.” 

“ Into your hands ? You, who have educated this youth 
in such dangerous principles ? 99 

“ My archon, it is hard to call a teacher to account for 
every word his pupil drops — ” 

“ It is, indeed, high time to examine more closely the 
doctrines you preach in darkness. The leniency the 
emperor shows you is no longer in place, when it appears 
that you cherish and diffuse a species of ethics which 
threaten the stability of society. I order you and your 
foster-son to follow me to my house. I was seeking you 
and him upon important business, when this occurrence 
attracted my attention. One cause can now be united with 
the other. They both concern your foster-son.” 

Peter turned pale at these words. But he quickly 
regained his self-control and said calmly: 

“ I am at your disposal.” He then turned to Clemens and 
ordered him to follow. 

“ Where are we going, my father ? ” asked the young 
reader, whose whole being manifested a feverish excite- 
ment. 

“ To Chrysanteus’ house.” 

“ Why to him, and not to the court or the prison ? 
What have I to do with Chrysanteus ? I will not step 
over his threshold.” 

“Clemens,” whispered the bishop, “you are not like 
yourself, to-day. Ho not forget what you owe to me. An 
important crisis is perhaps approaching. Control your- 


The Last Athenian. 


399 


self, and whatever may happen do not deny the love y iu 
cherish for the protector of your childhood.” 

“ My father, I will try to be calm.” 

Chrysanteus returned to Hermione. As they left the 
spot and took their way to Tripod street, he told her what 
had happened at the temple and the role Clemens had 
played in the transaction. 

Peter and Clemens followed them at a little distance, 
accompanied by a crowd of inquisitive people, who had wit- 
nessed the scene just described. 

Peter continued, taking Clemens by the hand : 

“There may await us something very different from 
what you expect. I do not now mean the punishment for 
your rash deed. This is comparatively a trifling matter.” 

“ Be assured, I have not the slightest fear — ” 

“ But it is possible that your affection for me will be sub- 
jected to the severest test. I conjure you on this account, 
be strong, my son ! Do not allow yourself to be overpow- 
ered ! ” 

“Ah, how can you doubt the strength of my love and 
esteem ? What power on earth can shake it ? ” 

“ And yet I tell you, Clemens, it is possible, that in a 
few moments I shall stand before you as a man weighed 
down with guilt, as the enemy of your happiness — ” 

“ It is impossible, father.” 

“ Well, I will hope so. I go, then, whatever may hap- 
pen, to victory, instead of defeat.” 

When they had arrived at Chrysanteus’ house, Hermi- 
one, at her father’s request, retired to her chamber, to await 
the result of the interview. 

Chrysanteus invited Peter to accompany him to a private 
room in the upper story, leaving Clemens behind in the 
aula. 

Peter had, in the mean time, made up his mind. In case 
the circumstance Chrysanteus had hinted at, was really 


400 


The Last Athenian. 


that which Peter supposed, it was of no use to be amazed 
at the unpleasant discovery, but compel it to come over to 
his side. 

When the two men were alone in Chrysanteus’ study, 
Peter was the first who spoke. 

“ 1 enter your house unwillingly, my archon. The 
sight of your pictures and books is as little fitted for my 
ej'es, as my coarse sandals for this handsome floor. But 
since I do not take them oft* in church, you must pardon 
me for not removing them in your house.” 

“ Well,” said Chrysanteus, pointing to a door which led 
out to a balcony, “ Let us take a place without. You will 
not suffer there from the sight of anything which can dis- 
turb your attention from my words, and there the clear 
light of day will fall upon your face.” 

“Fear not. I am the same in darkness, as in the 
brightest sunlight,” said Peter, as he followed Chrysanteus 
out upon the balcony. “ There are, then, two circumstan- 
ces concerning my son Clemens, of which we are to speak. 
The one, I know and lament. The other, I know not. If 
you wish for any explanations in regard to him, I am at 
your service. I have known him from his earliest child- 
hood, and am ready to impart to you all the knowledge 
I possess.” 

“ It is well,” said Chrysanteus, with a piercing look, 
which, however, the bishop bore calmly. “I have heard it 
said that Clemens is a foundling. Is this the case ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ How came he in your hands ? ” 

“ Through him who found him.” 

“ You know, perhaps, that I, myself, have lost a son. It 
is now about seventeen years since he disappeared, I 
know not how ; but there vanished, at the same time with 
him, two slaves, a father and son. These two people 
were Christians, and it is probable they stole him. You 


The Last Athenian. 


401 


can, from this, comprehend the sympathy I entertain for 
your foster-son, ever since 1 learned that he was a found- 
ling, all the more, as, judging from his appearance, he must 
be of the same age as my unhappy Philip would have 
been, had he lived.” 

“ I perfectly understand this sympathy,” said Peter, 
“ and I regret your misfortune, hut deem that it has entirely 
fallen upon yourself, and not upon your son, if it be true, 
that he was stolen by Christians. This is spoken from my 
point of view, Chrysanteus. I should have considered him 
very unfortunate had he remained under 3'our protection, and 
been educated by you as an enemy of the Divine revela- 
tion. If this thought can comfort you, that they stole him 
with a noble intention, and that they bestowed upon him 
the tenderest care in their power, allow me to assure you, 
that so it was, for I know my fellow-believers.” 

“ Your words strengthen the probability that the two 
slaves carried away my son — ” 

“ This is also my conviction.” 

“Unhappy religion, which confounds the simplest ideas 
of right, dissolves the ties of family, and cleaves asunder 
the world ! But let us leave our different views aside ! I 
wish further information about Clemens, for a presage, per- 
haps erroneous, but natural in my situation, tells me noth- 
ing less than that he is my son.” 

“ What say you ? ” exclaimed Peter, with feigned aston- 
ishment. “ This thought ! — How wonderful that it did not 
long ago arise in me also ! But the number of foundlings 
is so great, in our days, that upon reflection it is not so 
extraordinary. Constantius forbade the horrid custom of 
deserting children. It still continues, however ; but mark 
well, Chrysanteus, we Christians are never guilty of this 
infamous crime against God and nature. 

“ How old was your foster-son when you received him 
from his first protector ? ” 


402 


The Last Athenian. 


“ He appeared to be about three years of age.” 

“Who. was this man, from whom you received him?” 
continued Chrj^santeus. 

“ A slave from Athens.” 

“ Oh, merciful gods ! Can, then, this Clemens really be 
my son, Philip ! — Peter,” continued Chrysanteus, “ tell me 
all you know concerning this man, and conceal nothing. 
The most inconsiderable trifle may place us on the right 
track, may confirm or annihilate this probability you have 
given me.” 

“ Alas, my archon. I am unable to fulfil your request. 
The man in question lay upon his death bed, when he 
committed Clemens to my care. He told me but little con- 
cerning the foundling, and even this little was under the 
seal of confession, which cannot be broken.” 

“ Where were you located then ? ” 

“ At Antioch, where I studied our holy theology.” 

“ And the man was a slave from Athens ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And he confessed that the child he entrusted to you 
was a foundling ? ” 

“ He said still more, which I cannot divulge. I may say, 
however, that he had saved the tender infant from drown- 
ing — probably in the mire of the old religion.” 

“ Have you, then, no further information to give me ? ” 

“Yes, one circumstance more, which perhaps is of 
greater weight than all the confused accounts confided to 
me by the dying slave.” 

“Well?” 

“ As a souvenir of Clemens’ childhood, and as an impor- 
tant witness, since it may assist in unveiling his birth, I 
have preserved a cloth, which originally seems to have been 
a cradle-coverlet. It is of costly material and displays in 
the. centre an artistically woven head of Medusa. Ho you 
recollect whether your son had any such thing ? ” 


The Last Athenian. 


403 


(< Where do you keep this coverlet ? ” 

“ At my house.” 

u Good. We can examine it there. What jou now tell 
me will dissipate my last doubt. The first supposition that 
Clemens was my lost son, arose in my daughter, as she saw 
liis resemblance to a portrait of my departed wife, the 
mother of them both. Elpinice.” 

“ Elpinice ? Do you say that this was her name ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ Elpinice, daughter of Hermogenes ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ This name is woven into the cldth,” said Peter. 
“ Every doubt is thus removed. I congratulate you at hav- 
ing found a son, whom you have so long mourned as lost.” 

“ Yes, praised be the gods,” said Chrysanteus with a 
deep sigh. 

“ But at the same time that I congratulate you,” contin- 
ued Peter, “ I must commiserate myself, for your gain is 
my loss. The exclusive claims I had to his affection, must 
hereafter be shared with you. The ties of blood will have 
their right, which can hardly be, without relaxing those of 
the spirit, which unite him and me. I have loved Clemens 
and love him still, as if he were my own son. All that I 
could do for his happiness has been done. I know that you 
and I have very different ideas as to the conditions of human 
happiness, and that the road to bliss upon which I have 
placed Clemens, and where he has blamelessly walked by 
my side, is the opposite of that you yourself would have 
pointed out to him. But my good intent pervades my 
actions, and you ought not to misconstrue them. I wish 
this admission from your lips, when I place Clemens in 
your hands. It is the only reward I ask for receiving him 
when he was an unprotected infant, and this you cannot 
deny me.” 

“We should first, as far as possible, convince ourselves 


404 


The Last Athenian. 


that there is no mistake about this. We will then consider 
what validity your request possesses. I am not willing to 
admit it at once. Permit me, bishop, to ask you a few 
questions about your own life ? 99 

“ Why not ? ” said Peter, calmly. 

* You seem to be some ten years younger than I. 
Where were you born ? ” 

“ In Ephesus, of Christian parents,” answered Peter. 
“ My fattier was a poor mechanic, but I bless his memory. 
By toilsome work he scraped together a little sum, with 
which he assisted me upon the sacred path, paved with 
denials, which I voluntarily chose, and upon which I 
advanced, till I have become what I am — bishop of Athens, 
and a humble servant of the Lord. This is briefly my his- 
tory.” 

Chrysanteus put some further questions to him, concern- 
ing his father’s name and race, the occupation by which he 
supported himself, when he died, &c., which the bishop 
willingly answered. Chrysanteus then expressed the wish, 
that they should immediately repair to Peter’s dwelling in 
Scambonidse, to examine the extraordinary cradle-coverlet. 

Clemens, who was awaiting the close of the conversation 
in the aula, was told to accompany them. He had not yet 
the least idea of what they had been discussing. 

When they arrived at the bishop’s cottage, and he pro- 
duced from its hiding-place the carefully preserved cloth, 
Clemens wondered what this could mean ; and his wonder 
was turned to an uneasy foreboding, when Chrysanteus 
carefully examined this relic of his mysterious childhood, 
and at last declared, that he recognized it, and that the 
name woven into the cloth secured him from any danger of 
mistake. 

“ I recollect now,” said Peter, “ that Clemens, in his 
infancy, had also an ornament for the neck, an amulet or 
something of the kind, which I threw away, when I 


The Last Athenian. 


405 


observed that the figures upon it had a heathen, sh mean- 
ing. They were three women, at work about a distaff, and 
probably represented the three Fates — ” 

“ This also agrees,” exclaimed Chrysanteus. “ My 
daughter has an ornament exactly like this. It is an old 
custom in my family to give them to the children — and 
the longer I look upon this youth, the more clearly I recog- 
nize in his face the never-to-be-forgotten features of my 
departed wife. My heart tells me he is my son. Woe be 
to the man who stole him from his father ! Clemens,” con- 
tinued Chrysanteus, u for I must call you by this name, since 
you, as yet, know no other, — I have to-day found a son, 
whom I have long mourned as lost.” 

The tone in which Chrysanteus spoke these words, 
expressed an affection deep, but restrained, since it doubted 
whether it would find a response. He took the youth’s 
hand and sought to clasp him to his breast ; but Clemens 
tore himself away, and retreated with looks of amazement 
and doubt. 

He turned an inquiring glance towards his foster-father, 
and the latter remaining silent, he exclaimed : 

“ It is not possible. Can this man, whom you have 
taught me to hate, be my father ? ” 

“ My son,” said the bishop, “ God has decreed -that your 
birth, which has hitherto been a secret even to myself, 
should suddenly be brought to light. That hour for which 
you have daily waited, has now come. Ho not be surprised, 
Chrysanteus, at his conduct ! He was not prepared for 
this discovery ; you must not wonder that his amazement 
exceeds his joy.” 

“ No,” continued Clemens, after a few moments’ silence, 
“ I do not believe it. It is not yet proved that this man is 
my father ; and until this is fully established, I will not 
recognize him as such. He, my father ! He, who perse- 
cutes my faith, and denies the Divine revelation ! ” 


406 


The Last Athenian . 


“Clemens,” said the bishop, “ every doubt is removed. 
You have, in Chrysanteus, found him who gave you life. 
But do not be cast down by this discovery ! Embrace him, 
and thank God, who has at last granted your warmest 
desire — that you might know your parents.” 

“No; what have I to do with this mair? You hear, I 
do not acknowledge him, I have never wished to know my 
father, for you, Peter, are the only father I acknowledge, 
the only father I can love. It is for my mother I long, 
and not for him.” 

“ You must pardon him, Chrysanteus,” said Peter. “In 
his first surprise, he forgets the Divine command, that a 
son should honor his father. He needs time to accustom 
himself to the thought that he is your son.” 

“ Peter, do not desert me,” said Clemens, “ Listen not 
to this man, if he appeals to any authority which would sep- 
arate you and me. I am a foundling. The parents, who 
left me to die of hunger, have no longer any claipi upon 
me. I deny them.” 

“ Yet,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “I would like to see my 
mother. I would tell her that I live, and ask her why she 
forsook me.” 

“ Your mother,” said Chrysanteus, “ is dead. She died 
while you lay an infant, in the cradle.” 

“ Oh, my God, what say you ? Deceive me not! ” 

“You would ask, why she forsook you? Even when 
dying, she pressed you to her bosom. I lifted you from the 
cradle and laid you in her arms. Her last prayer was for 
you. But, enough. The memory of your noble mother 
shall sometime stand pure and radiant before your eyes. 
It is to you, Peter, I now turn. Why have you implanted 
in your foster-son the belief that he is a foundling, left by 
cruel parents to die of hunger ? Was this lie necessary, 
to teach him to despise their memory ? You did this 
against your own knowledge, since you presumed, perhaps 


The Last Athenian. 407 

knew with certainty, that your foster-son was stolen from 
his parents.” 

“ My archon, the Athenian slave told me he was a 
foundling.” 

“ Do you remember the Athenian slave’s name ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ I shall then endeavor to refresh your memory. “ What 
was your own name, before you called yourself Peter ? ” 

The bishop grew very pale at this question. 

Chrysanteus continued, without waiting for an answer : — 

“We have, without doubt, seen each other before, and 
under different circumstances. There are features in your 
countenance, which remind me of a person I had least of 
all expected to find here, in Athens. The resemblance is 
truly not striking, for seventeen years can effect a great 
change, and the bishop’s cowl, not long since, was able to 
change the slave’s timid look to that of an arrogant sov- 
ereign. To-day is not the first time you have worn the 
coarse dress of the laborer, Peter. In it, you are more like 
yourself, such as you were in your youth. To-day also, my 
eyes have become somew'hat sharper, and I believe I am 
not mistaken in saying that you, Homoiousian bishop, are 
rny run-away slave, Simmias ! ” 

“ What a conjecture ! ” exclaimed Peter, endeavoring to 
smile, u I have already told you the history of my life. Do 
you not remember that I was born at Ephesus, of free, but 
poor parents ? ” 

“ It is possible I am mistaken. But it is also possible 
that you lie. I shall send a trust-worthy person to Ephe- 
sus, to make inquiries whether the man you state to be 
your father, ever existed. At present, I assume the con- 
trary. . Simmias’ father was a slave, like himself ; he became 
crazed through religious fanaticism, and an insane passion 
for my wife, and fled with his son, when I was about to 
send him to the mad-house. Is this man, your father, still 
living ? ” 


408 


The Last Athenian. 


“My archon, I cannot answer such a question. Youi 
supposition is entirely unfounded. It inspires me with 
both anger and merriment.” 

“ Your merriment will restrain itself, when you are 
arrested as a fugitive slave, and cliild-stealer.” 

“ You dare not make such an accusation.” 

“ You will be relieved from that error this very day.” 

“ It is true that you, who are the emperor’s favorite, can 
dare everything, especially against a confessor of Christ. 
But I fear you not. I arm myself with my innocence, and 
will put you to shame before the judge, for your ingrati- 
tude. Is this the way you reward me for my care of } 7 our 
son ? ” 

“ Shameless man,” exclaimed Ohrysanteus, “ it is this 
care which shall cost you your head. You have stolen 
him from me, taught him to hate me, profaned his mother’s 
memory, and educated him to be an unhappy fanatic. 
Does this deserve my gratitude ? Simmias, I have recog- 
nized you. From this moment, I assume my right over 
you. You are my slave. I carry you hence to the prison 
for fugitive slaves, and from the prison to the court. Now 
follow me.” 

“ I beg you to reflect before you imprison a Bom an citi- 
zen. Even if I were this Simmias, of whom you speak, it 
could not be proved. Thank your gods, that you have found 
your son, and thus comfort yourself for the loss of a slave. 
You will never find Simmias, not even if you execute your 
threat. I am prepared, however, to follow you to prison or 
wherever you wish to carry me. You are sovereign in 
Athens, and resistance to your will avails nothing. But 
the result of your inconsiderate action will fall upon your 
own head. Your motives are perfectly clear to me., I am 
a Christian and bishop ; this is enough to make me a crim- 
inal in your eyes. You will not miss an opportunity of 
casting a dark shadow upon such a man’s career, for even 


The Last Athenian. 


409 


if the accusation cannot be proved, it will still, you hope, 
fasten a stain upon his name, a stain, to which calumny can 
point and say — Lo ! such are the champions of the new 
religion : the shepherds of the Christians. And more, you 
wish to lower me to a wretch in my Clemens’ eyes, because 
you are enraged at seeing that his heart belongs to me, and 
is a stranger to yourself. I requite this, by saying to you, 
Clemens, that this man is your natural father, and that you 
ought to respect and obey him as such — obey him in every- 
thing, not contrary to the law of God. I confide you to 
his keeping, and although we are separated, I am assured 
you will, in his dangerous presence, neither forget the God 
whom I taught you to know, nor your foster-father, whose 
joy you have always been. If he will persuade you that I 
have been his slave, I know that the slave is not, in your 
eyes, a despicable being, but a man, made free in Christ ; 
and should he convince you that I stole you from your 
father, remember that this was done to save your soul, and 
lead you to a better father in Heaven.” 

Peter embraced the agitated youth, and then continued 
to Chrysanteus : 

“ If you have not changed your mind, but still wish to 
execute your intention, I am now ready to follow you. I 
had, it is true, some matters to arrange, before stepping 
inside the prison door, but I will not trouble you with a 
request for delay, which you probably would not grant.” 

“No, Simmias,” Chrysanteus answered, “I should not 
grant it. I fear upon good grounds, that your conscience 
is not so clear, and your soul not so entirely calm as you 
pretend. It might happen that you would save yourself by 
flight. Once out of my sight, it would be hard for the 
whole power of the emperor to track you. I am bent upon 
an investigation, which will throw light upon the minutest 
circumstances of your life. Only by this means, can I be 
fully convinced that I make no mistake when I legally 


410 


The Last Athenian. 


acknowledge this youth as my son. Doubts upon this, have 
again begun to arise within me. The ties of blood ought 
to have manifested themselves in some drop of his heart, 
when I called him my son. This investigation will also 
bear another fruit. It will unveil before the emperor’s 
eyes, the horrible morals you Christians preach, and the 
deeds you practice. The leniency granted to your reli- 
gious views cannot be extended to your morals. If the 
former are inseparably connected with the latter, they must 
both be rooted out. People who preach child-stealing, 
spiritual suicide, contempt for civil duties, and death to all 
who do not swear by their own foolish metaphysics, should 
not be tolerated any more than other thieves and murder- 
ers. Concerning yourself, it has not yet been explained 
what part you had in the bloody persecutions, which, on 
the death of Constantius,. raged in our city and cost thou- 
sands of human lives. My conviction is, that you were the 
instigator of it, and that all the blood, then shed, will fall 
upon your head. This also is a matter which deserves 
investigation. It was too hasty a promise, when the 
emperor offered forgetfulness of the past to these Christian 
evil-doers, who ravaged the cites of the East and the West, 
with fire and sword. He ought at least to see, that you are 
made harmless for the future. Now follow me.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE FLESH AND THE SPIRIT. 

Clemens accompanied Peter to the prison, and left him 
with a warm embrace, and the liveliest assurances of his 
affection. 

He then followed his father to his new home. They 


The Last Athenian. 


411 


were both silent on the way. Chrysanteus was evidently 
dejected ; pain and anguish lay in the look which he at 
intervals cast upon his regained Philip, who, mute, gloomy 
and reluctant, walked at his side. 

After they had arrived at the house on Tripod street, and 
Chrysanteus having called Hermione, had told Clemens she 
was his sister, his countenance first lighted up, and a tender 
feeling awoke in his bosom. He answered instantly and 
impetuously, her sisterly pledges of affection ; gazed admir- 
ingly at her pure and noble features, and listened kindly 
to the repeated expressions of her joy, at having recovered 
him. 

Chrysanteus left the brother and sister to pass the after- 
noon together. Hermione led Clemens to the picture of 
his mother, Elpinice. The sight called forth his tears. 
She showed him his cradle, and the playthings that 
belonged to him in infancy, and which had been fondly pre- 
served, as souvenirs. She told Clemens how deeply their 
father had mourned his loss, how they had wondered and 
feared his unknown fate, and at last, had fallen upon his 
track. Her narration was broken only by tender demon- 
strations, as, in the overflow of her joy, she time after -time 
embraced him, caressed him, and gazed deeply into his 
eyes. All this melted, at last, the crust around Clemens’ 
heart ; and when, in the evening, he again saw his father, 
he hastened to his arms. 

Chrysanteus hoped that the ties of consanguinity, thus 
aroused in the breast of his son, would be strengthened and 
rendered permanent by the love which was shown him. 
But this hope soon faded away. Clemens kept reminding 
himself, that Chrysanteus was the “ arch -heathen,” the 
chief instrument and assistant of antichrist ; yes, still more 
— his teacher, and the one who induced him to renounce 
Christianity ! This thought, which terrified him, he could 
not chase away, since a thousand objects in his new home, 


412 


The Last Athenian. 


the customs there observed, and Chrysanteus’ daily occupa- 
tion, continually reminded him of it. Chrysanteus and 
Hermione saw that these circumstances assisted in render- 
ing him gloomy and inaccessible. On this account, Chry- 
santeus placed a separate portion of his house at his dis- 
posal ; adorned it with the productions of Christian art, 
and procured for him Homoiousian servants, and a little 
library of Christian authors. 

In Theodorus, who often visited Chrysanteus’ house, the 
latter hoped to find for Clemens a friend, whose society 
would be both pleasant and healthful for him. But every 
attempt of Theodorus to approach the young reader, and 
win his confidence, was foiled. Clemens mistrusted in him 
a seducer, who had assumed the shape of an angel of light, 
and knew him of a certainty to be a heretic ; and a heretic, 
too, more dangerous than any other, for he denied the 
church as an institution ; denied the Holy Spirit, as a magic 
power capable of being imparted by the laying on of 
hands ; denied the priesthood, as a separate middle class ; 
and had, of late, in Athens and its suburbs, won many 
adherents to his dangerous doctrines, who had gathered 
around him and formed a congregation. 

The only constraint Chrysanteus wished to lay upon 
Clemens, was to prevent his further intercourse with Peter ; 
but he utterly refused to obey this command. Peter was 
his spiritual father, and deserved his love and unconditional 
obedience. 

Clemens often visited the bishop in prison. Chrysanteus 
perceived the unhappy influence this man exercised upon 
his son, though he little dreamed its whole extent. He 
ordered that the prison doors should not be opened for 
Clemens, and hoped thus to break the connection between 
him and Peter. But this was no serious impediment for 
Clemens. Almost every evening he stole away to the 
prison, conversed through the little barred window with his 


The Last Athenian. 


413 


foster-father, confessed to him and received his blessing. 
Peter exhorted him to renew these interviews as often as 
possible, since they were to himself a pledge, that his 
foster-son kept his heart pure from the dangerous influences 
around him ; he declared that lie bore his confinement with 
submission, and the only uneasiness he experienced, con- 
cerned Clemens and the dangers which surrounded him, in 
the seductive guise of fatherly and sisterly love, of heathen- 
ish philosophy, earthly rich* is, and heretical eloquence. 
This uneasiness, he asserted, was dreadful, and could only 
be quieted by Clemens himself. He conjured the reader 
to give heed to every thought and feeling. By the slightest 
yielding to these temptations, he would be lost, for if they 
once gained a foothold in his soul, they would soon obtain 
complete mastery ; it would be hard to conquer a beleagur- 
ing enemy, after the walls and gates, which should shut 
him out, had fallen into his hands. Clemens seldom left 
his spiritual father without being reminded of the text, 
“ He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not 
worthy of me.” He also retired within himself as much 
as possible, seldom appeared in the presence of father or 
sister, received visits only from Euphemius and his other 
colleagues, communed with his books and his fancies, copied 
the Revelation of St. John, and in the evening, before steal- 
ing to Peter, repaired to Eusebia’s boudoir, with her to 
pray, to dream and to kiss. If he had, before, had any 
reason for doubting the emotion he entertained toward 
the beautiful Roman, he was now completely lulled to 
security, for he had confessed to Peter his relations with 
her, and Peter had approved them ; it was one bond more 
upon his thoughts, and an object calling forth that affection 
he otherwise might have bestowed upon his kindred. 

The investigations, instituted by Chrysanteus, in Ephe- 
sus and Antioch, in reference 'to Peter’s previous life, 
delayed the trial which awaited him before a court of jus- 


414 


The Last Athenian. 


tice. Chrysanteus hoped that when the veil had been 
removed, Clemens’ reverence and affection for this man 
would be turned to loathing. But Peter anticipated him 
with a voluntary confession to Clemens one night, when the 
latter presented himself at the little prison window. He 
told Clemens, that he was the same Simmias, Chrysanteus 
suspected him to be ; he described the hardships he was 
compelled to endure, when he, a slave in a heathen house, 
went over, with his father, to Christianity ; he described, 
also, the joy he felt, when his determination was fixed, and 
his soul hardened against the scorn and ill-will this step 
brought upon him from master and fellow-servants ; the 
zea\, with which he devoted himself, in leisure hours, to the 
study of Holy Writ ; and the bliss, which, with the new 
light, illumined his soul, and filled him with pity for all 
who had not become partakers of it. It was at this time 
Clemens was born. When Clemens was a year old, and, 
clasping the hand of his mother, had appeared among the 
slaves, Peter had been captivated by the uncommon expres- 
sion of his beautiful face. There was a gleam of Heaven 
in his eyes, and he seemed like an angel. Thus it was all 
the more intolerable to him, to think that this child should 
grow up in heathenish errors and contempt for Him, who is 
the heavenly Friend of children. Peter contended a whole 
year against the thought of fleeing, with the little Philip, 
from the heathen house, to save his soul and restore the 
lamb to the true shepherd. During this time, he grew sick 
with doubt and anxiety, whether this would be right before 
God. But the words, “ Suffer little children to come unto 
me,” had echoed night and day in his soul, and at last 
forced him to decide. What had since happened, was 
known to Clemens. Peter had long wandered about with 
his precious treasure, in continual danger of being seized 
by the imperial officers, who everywhere pursued him. His 
father accompanied his flight. It was a miracle that they 




The Last Athenian. 


415 


escaped, and no less a miracle, that so tender a child as 
Clemens could endure the hardships which, in spite of the 
utmost care, the two fugitives were unable to avert from 
him, when they often lacked the most simple necessaries of 
life. 

Peter narrated all this in such an eloquent and touching 
manner, that when he asked Clemens to sit in judgment 
upon his conduct, the latter, instead of disapproving it, or 
feeling contempt for the robber, pressed his hands, stretched 
out through the grating, to his lips ; called him his greatest 
benefactor, and expressed his undying gratitude. The 
intercourse between them became tenderer, and the bond 
which united them, more strongly knit than ever. 

Among the Homoiousian populace, Peter’s imprisonment 
awoke a furious rage, which only awaited an opportunity 
to manifest itself. Euphemius, the eldest presbyter, per- 
formed Peter’s duties, in the mean time, and repaired daily 
to the prison, to make his report and receive the orders of 
his superior. The dark-haired presbyter’s address was 
humbler now than ever, when he stood before his bishop, 
and he was unassuming enough to give the latter the honor 
of all the good he was able to accomplish. In leisure hours 
he still occupied himself with the art of punctuation. 

By means of this he strove to learn how long Julian 
would live ; if the emperor who succeeded to the throne 
would be Homoousian or Homoiousian ; if Peter would be 
acquitted or condemned, at his approaching trial, — and the 
condemnation could be no less than death ; if Peter, in case 
of acquittal, would be bishop of Pome, patriarch of Con- 
stantinople, or in any other way be taken from his fold at 
Athens ; when this would happen, and who would be his 
successor, Euphemius or some other, — all of which ques- 
tions highly interested Euphemius, and daily occupied his 
thoughts. 

One of his duties, as eldest presbyter, was to keep his 


416 


The Last Athenian . 


younger brothers at their studies, and give heed to the 
purity of all they read. Now Euphemius had arrived at the 
conclusion, that one cannot master the contents of a book 
in a more thorough manner, than by copying it several 
times. He was accustomed, therefore, to give the young 
priests for copying, now the numerous Evangelists, the 
universal^ recognized as well as the others ; and now such 
new writings as had awakened great interest among the 
members of the Christian Church, and on this account 
would meet with a ready sale. With such copies, Euphe- 
mius drove a lucrative trade on his own account. 

At that time there was much talk among the Christians 
about a book called “ The Dangers of Solitude,” whose 
author was, or pretended to be, a monk, who had lived many 
years in the deserts of Egypt ; that, far from the bustle and 
temptations of the world, he might pass his time in medita- 
tion and the purification of his soul. But while there, he 
arrived at the dearly-bought conviction, that one flees in 
vain to the solitude of the desert, if he carries with him 
his heart and his fancy. In these, is hidden a world far 
more dangerous than that from which he has withdrawn, 
peopled by the same temptations, but mightier and more 
irresistible, because they are etherealized as it were, freed 
from the coarse matter in which they manifest themselves 
in the outer world, and instead of being accidental phenom- 
ena, which in the flow of fresh life, give place to others, 
they gain possession of the whole soul, and make sensuality 
a demi-god, who breathes his life into every thought and 
feeling. To this fiend within, flock others from without, to 
whom he opens the gates. The author cited the words of 
Scripture, that devils, when driven out of persons possessed, 
sought dry and waste places, where they lay in wait for 
new dwellings. He contended that these words had a 
figurative meaning, that these dry and waste places were 
not only deserts in the natural world, but also deserts made 


The Last Athenian. 


417 


by man within bis own soul. Solitude is the friend, com- 
forter and instructor of man, as long as he does not misuse 
its friendship, and wear it out with importunity; then it 
becomes our most dangerous enemy. When the author 
had been convinced of this truth by his own experience, 
but still hesitated about renouncing the desert-life, enjoined 
by so many holy men, he moved to a district where other 
hermits were located. His nearest neighbor was a female 
anchorite. He determined to divide his time between soli- 
tude and a pious intercourse with her. She was a young 
woman, who, crushed by reverses, and with* conscience 
awakened to her many sins, had withdrawn from the world. 
He now described his intercourse with her, to show how the 
enemy of souls insinuates himself into the feelings where 
we least expect him ; how he takes the garb of sympathy 
and sisterly affection ; how he strews the dust of earth on 
the very wings of prayer, and pours his poison into the 
noblest wine of devotion. It was long, however, before he 
saw this. He wandered in perfect ignorance of the import 
of his feelings, and had reached the very brink of destruc- 
tion when a ray of Divine light shot into his soul, and 
revealed its true condition. His only salvation was a hasty 
flight from the desert, back to the busy hum of life. And 
instead of losing his soul, he found that it retains its 
healthfulness only in a life of activity, which unites the 
duties of religion with the duties to our fellow-men. 

This book, which excited much attention among the 
Christians, but received far more censure than praise, was 
given by Euphemius to Clemens, one day, for copying, since 
they had now happily completed their united labors in 
transcribing the Revelation of St. John. 

Euphemius added that the book contained much useful 
instruction, still Clemens must beware of approving the 
conclusions of the author. Such conclusions were lawful 
only for persons in the condition of the author, but not for 


418 


The Last Athenian. 


everybody, least of all for those whose prayers to God for a 
new heart, had been heard arid fulfilled. 

With this remarkable book under his arm, Clemens has- 
tened home, and once alone in his chamber, he opened the 
roll and was soon absorbed in its contents. 

With a quick eye, he ran along the lines till he reached 
the chapter where the author recounted his meeting and 
acquaintance with the female anchorite. 

Here, he was met by observations and reflections of a 
kind that riveted his eyes upon every word, and compelled 
the deepest attention. 

Clemens had hoped to have completed the perusal of the 
little work the same day, so that, with a knowledge of its 
contents, he might commence copying it on the morrow. 

Now the evening and night, even till dawn of day, were 
passed in continuous reading and reflection, and he was 
still far from the end of the book. He read time and 
again the interesting chapter. What preceded it was of no 
importance to him, and what followed did not attract his 
attention. To his unbounded surprise he discovered in the 
intimacy of the two anchorites, the most striking likeness to 
that subsisting between Eusebia and himself. They had 
enjoyed the same experiences, though for the most part in 
the air castles they had built of their future desert-life, in 
each other’s society. Those confessions, prayers, and hours 
of devotion ; their sympathetic tears at their sinfulness, and 
sympathetic joy at the proffered grace ; that sensuous, 
mystic languishing, which drew cheek to cheek and lip 
to lip, while sense quivered with emotions hitherto 
unknown, and therefore, without doubt, flowing from the 
pure fountain of sisterly affection and mutual devotion — all 
this resembled, to its \ minutest feature, what Clemens, 
himself, had experienced. He read this account with the 
greatest edification, because he saw in it a confirmation of 
the dea, that his own condition with its shifting feelings, 


The Last Athenian. 


419 


was nothing peculiar to himself, hut lay within the general 
scope of Christian experience. The author had not, as yet, 
made any reflections, nor given any idea of what was about 
to follow. His narrative bore the stamp of that security 
produced by lack of self-knowledge, in which he was, at 
that time, cradled. 

But what was Clemens’ amazement, when the author 
commenced a new clause, with a sudden declaration that 
the state he had described, was a work not of God, but of 
him who is a liar from the beginning; that the heaven in 
which he had dwelt, was the deepest hell, decked out by 
the crafty fiend with colors imitating the glory of heaven, 
and filled with spirits who hid their loathsomeness behind 
the mask of angels. Had this discovery been announced 
at the commencement of the story, Clemens would probably 
have been unwilling to recognize himself ; he would have 
sought after strange features, and persuaded himself that 
his experience was a different one. But now the resem- 
blance was already acknowledged, and he could not take 
back the confession. He was seized with terror. It was 
now all important for him to see the reasons with which 
the author justified his severe judgment. Perhaps the 
author was wrong ; jmt he developed his reasons in a very 
clear and convincing manner. He analyzed the different 
experiences in his emotional life, and in every case showed 
a precipitate of sensuality. He continued calmly, and 
without mercy. He was apparently a man who looked 
within himself, and there, as far as possible, studied univer- 
sal human nature. He was also a lover of truth ; one who 
would not leave to himself, or to another in his condition, a 
single thread of the radiant garment which the self-deceived 
wraps about his nakedness. And to love of truth, he 
added a boldness which, without doubt, injured his book in 
public estimation, for he dared to conclude with questions 
strange in themselves, and having such a tendency, that 


420 


The Last Athenian. 



one might almost suspect the whole work of heathenish, or 
at least, heretical views. He asked first, “ What is 
Religion ? is it made up of the accepted doctrines, or has, 
it in its essence, any dependence, whatever, upon them ? 
Do, for example, the different views of the personal relation 
in the Trinity, or the relation of the two natures in Christ, 
— do these exercise any essential influence upon religion ? 
These opposing tenets have set the world on fire, and must 
be very important truths or errors ; but does the devout 
life in God depend upon the manner in which these doc- 
trines were once settled ? If not, it must then be admitted, 
that the dogmas and their conception of faith, are by no 
means the same as the devout life in God, and that the 
latter cannot be said to stand in any distinct dependence 
upon the former. 

Is this life, then, a life of analyzing and determining 
thoughts ? Or is it a life where everything melts together 
in the sensuous, in which man perceives his union with 
God and his creation, and in which all his thoughts and 
acts receive a pequliar direction, all his fates and experi- 
ences a peculiar import ? If the latter is accepted as cor- 
rect, and religion thus rests upon the senses, it is asked, 
how can we prevent sensuality from mingling itself with 
this sensuous life ? ” 

It was the design of the author’s work to point out this 
continually threatening danger. “ And is it not greater, 
the more we mix the elements of sense with the doctrine 
of that God, who wishes to be worshipped in spirit and in 
truth ? But can Christianity exist without such elements 
— without the Saviour’s wounds, in which the imagination 
of pious women so gladly dwells ; without the heavenly 
Virgin, to whom the youth so warmly prays, without con- 
necting benevolence with objects of sense, and without a 
Heaven of indescribable joy ? ” 

Upon Clemens these questions had no effect in diminish- 


The L .*/ Athenian . 


421 


ing the impression he had already received from the book, 
for, full of anguish, he had cast it from him before he had 
reached the end. 

The unknown writer had told him the truth about his 
inner life. But the discovery was a terrible one ; it came 
so unexpectedly, and he was so captivated by his miscon- 
ceived desires, that he despaired of ever being able to free 
himself from them. 

The next evening he did not pay his regular visit to 
Eusebia. But when night came, he hastened to his foster- 
father, confessed to him and prayed for his counsel. 

Peter sought to calm him, because an opposite course 
might have a most unhappy influence upon his soul, and 
destroy the plans the bishop had built upon his foster-son. 
Without many reproaches, he advised him in mild language 
to avoid Eusebia in the future, and take refuge in earnest 
prayer and toilsome? work. 

But it was not long before Clemens found these means 
insufficient. He felt at times the strangest temptation to 
seek Eusebia again ; once he had reached the back entrance 
of the proconsular palace, when he suddenly turned about 
and fled ; he wished at least to bid her farewell, or with a 
few words, to answer the little notes he now received from 
her full of tender upbrai dings at his absence — but Peter 
had commanded him to break every tie that bound him to 
her, and he admitted to himself, that they were inspira- 
tions of the tempter, which ought to be resisted. 

But it availed little that Clemens avoided Eusebia’s pres- 
ence. The evil one held his fancy in his hands, and even 
in the midst of Clemens’ prayers, conjured up her image, 
if possible,, more beautiful than ever. The young reader 
bent more and more under his grief. He considered him- 
self excluded from the intercourse of Heaven, and irre- 
deemably given up to the devil. There were moments when 
he gave up the strife, and was ready to hasten to Eusebia, 


422 


The Last Athenian. 


not to pray with her, hut to embrace her, confess his un- 
happy passion, and claim her love in return ; at other 
moments he was seized with despair at his weakness. His 
strength wasted rapidly away in this hopeless strife ; he 
grew thin, his eyes sank in their sockets, and his cheeks 
became ashy pale. His father and sister observed his con- 
dition with the greatest anxiety ; but when they approached 
him, he impetuously commanded them to leave him in 
peace, and he shunned them whenever it was possible. He 
often went off and strolled about the whole day. The 
pillar-field was his chosen resort ; he would pass whole hours 
there, wandering about the pillar, or reposing in a cave 
near by, whence he looked at the saint, who, still with the 
same untiring zeal, continued kneeling in the air. Simon 
seemed to him, the happiest of mortals. He envied him, 
and would have liked his place. It must be immeasurably 
sweet, thus to kneel, with head bared to the sun’s rays, till 
thoughts, feelings, and consciousness grew numb. It was 
for such a condition that Clemens longed, for it would 
enjoin an armistice upon the powers which fought within 
him, and give him at least some hours peace. 

When Clemens had found all milder means fruitless, he 
seized upon those extreme ones, which piety has found for 
mortifying the uproarious flesh. He starved, till his strength 
was well nigh exhausted, and when at last he was com- 
pelled to interrupt his fasting with an occasional repast, all 
other food than bread, all other drink than water, was ban- 
ished from his table. Every day he scourged himself till 
the blood ran from his shoulders. But even such horrid 
means as these did not accomplish his object. Clemens, 
indeed, felt his powers of thought darkened, and his brain 
bewildered, but although he deemed these good signs, the 
main point was not won. On the other hand, he found 
that fancy, far from being curbed, spread free wings, while 
the other faculties were numb, and the limbs were ready to 


The Last Athenian. 


423 


refuse their office. He began to be haunted with visions, 
not only in sleep, hut in his waking moments. In these, 
the strife raging in his soul was symbolized. 

He was visited by the Holy Virgin and the devil in turn ; 
the latter assumed different forms to cheat him, but oftenest 
he appeared in the most dangerous shape of all — that of 
Eusebia. Clemens stood on the brink of the abyss of mad- 
ness. 

In this state, while wandering about the streets of 
Athens one day, he was met by an imposing equipage, 
drawn by mules, decked with many colored blankets and 
tinkling bells, and surrounded by slaves, in glittering 
uniforms. It was Eusebia’s carriage. She was taking her 
usual morning drive. Clemens pulled the cowl over his 
face and hurried by. But Eusebia had already caught 
sight of him. She was astonished at his pale, altered 
looks, and with a sigh at the transitory nature of all things, 
commanded the driver to hasten on. 

From that day, Clemens was no longer tempted by any 
letters from the beautiful Roman. He had lost his com- 
plexion, and with it everything that attached her to him. 
Before, a charmingly handsome youth, he was now nothing 
but a young priest of the usual pale, lean species ; and the 
only attribute he still possessed, which might find grace in 
her eyes, was his orthodoxy ; but he shared this, with 
many, and even this, perhaps, was not much to be relied 
on, after the remarkable discovery of his birth, and since 
he had become a member of the arch-heathen’s household. 

Eusebia’s sisterly affection, before so tender and burning, 
went out like a lamp at a gust of wind. It never occurred . 
to her to inquire after the cause of Clemens’ change, if it 
were a mortal disease, a dire affliction of the soul, or any- 
thing else. It was sufficient that his features had lost their 
youthfulness, his eyes their brilliancy, his complexion its 
freshness — in a word, he had grown plain and uninterest- 


424 


The Last Athenian. 


ing. Out of compassion for herself she determined to for- 
get him, — not at all difficult, as she had full occupation in 
thinking upon religion and her soul’s salvation. 

Eusebia soon afterward left Athens. There was no 
reason for her remaining, since Peter could no longer enter 
the pulpit. Eusebia returned to Corinth, the capital of the 
province, where her Annseus Domitius, in the capacity of 
proconsul of Achaia, lived and labored. She had assumed 
an arduous undertaking — she would convert him, would 
lead back the poor apostate into the bosom of the orthodox 
church. She had sworn to use all possible arts, which may 
be employed by a pious woman, to embitter his life, that 
she might better it. With this noble determination she 
made her entry one fine day, with pomp and state, into the 
brilliant commercial city. 

When Clemens learned her departure, he strove to thank 
God, who had taken away so dangerous a temptation, but 
this thankfulness was only that of the tongue ; his heart 
spoke a different language. He shut himself up in his 
chamber, and shed bitter tears. It had caused him a secret 
joy to know that^she was not far away, that she breathed 
the same air as he, and that he could see her, if he so 
wished. He imagined that her anguish at the separation 
was as deep as his own, and increased by the uncertainty of its 
cause. He thought her sisterfy love heavenly and angelic ; 
it was only his own passion which was mingled with earthly 
ingredients ; the fault was his alone, who should have been 
her father-confessor and guide. 

In his walks, he was drawn unconsciously towards the 
proconsular palace, but the thought that Eusebia was no 
longer within its walls, chased him away again. With an 
insupportable void within him, he returned home or mount- 
ing some hill, looked dreamily into the distance, where 
Corinth lay hid from his sight. 

He was still haunted by the horrid idea that evil spirits 


The Last Athenian. 


425 


continually surrounded him, and conjured up the images 
which appeared to his fancy, in order to hold his soul in the 
unclean chains of matter, and at last to gain complete pos- 
session of it. But this idea was now occasionally lost in 
dull oblivion, in which he forgot his fasting and scourging. 
He then became more accessible to his relatives ; he, at 
least, did not seem troubled by their presence. Hermione 
took advantage of it to approach him, and seek his confi- 
dence. 

Her honest love and winning deportment made an evi- 
dent impression upon her brother, and at last gained his 
affection. She induced him to give up his solitude, leave 
his chamber, and pass a few hours of the day in her com- 
pany, on the charming spot where we once saw her with 
her friends — where the fountain murmured, the birds sang, 
the colonnades threw a refreshing shade, and the heavens 
arched pure and clear. 

Clemens conquered his prejudices, which would repel her; 
but he could not have done even this, had he not been sud- 
denly seized with the idea of converting her to Christianity. 
This idea revived his soul, it gave him an object worth 
striving for, and turned his thoughts from himself. He 
hastened to Peter, to acquaint him with his intention, and 
gain his encouragement. 

Peter could not do otherwise than approve his decision, 
although he by no means believed his foster-son to possess 
sufficient capacity for the business he had undertaken. 

From that hour, Clemens sought his sister’s society 
instead of shunning it. He began to speak to her of the 
Christian religion, and Hermione gladly listened to his 
words. With amazement, he discovered that what he 
related was not new to her. She had read the holy writ- 
ings of the Christians, she was acquainted with the life of 
Jesus, and could repeat the teachings which fell from his 
lips ; it was only in the amplification of these, and in the 


426 


The Last Athenian. 


Christian metaphysics, that she exhibited any lack of 
knowledge. Hermione saw that Clemens loved to speak 
upon these themes ; she willingly lent him her ear, and took 
care to bring forward other objections, beside such as were 
only fitted to spur on his zeal, and which he could master. 

But alas, Clemens’ perseverance was by no means so 
great as his ardor. The conversation was often disturbed 
by the entrance of some third person. Now Charmides, 
now Ismene and Berenice, and now Theodoras happened 
in. For the last one, Clemens entertained the same fear as 
for the loathsome tempter himself. It was impossible for 
Hermione to drive away this fear. When Theodoras 
approached, the young reader withdrew, without answering 
his greeting. Peter had erected an impassable wall between 
them. Clemens feared, also, that Theodoras, as well as him- 
self, was endeavoring to convert Hermione to Christianity. 
But the Christianity Theodoras professed w'as false and 
heretical, worse than heathenism itself. Clemens besought 
Hermione to be on her guard against Theodoras. She 
promised, smiling. But not content with this, Clemens 
wished her to break off all intercourse with him, and ban- 
ish him from her sight. Hermione, however, represented to 
her brother that one should exercise toleration towards 
everybody, and allow to the opinions of each their just 
weight. She spoke warmly of Theodoras’ noble qualities, 
and expressed her ardent wish that the two young men 
should become friends. 

Hermione knew not that this benevolent desire could 
wound and embitter Clemens. The morbid youth arose 
and left her ; and from that hour his inclination to con- 
verse with Hermione on religious subjects, vanished. He 
deemed her, as well as her father, forever lost to truth and 
light. 

He again retired within himself and sought unbroken 
solitude. Soon, the unhappy symptoms of his spiritual 


The Last Athenian. 


427 


anguish returned. He began again his rigid fasts ; began 
again to scourge himself. 

Chrysanteus, who, out of consideration for Clemens’ 
peace of mind, had hitherto permitted him freely to follow 
his inclinations, could no longer remain a passive witness 
to a way of life which would inevitably cast his son into 
the arms of madness or death. He determined to rescue 
him, with force if necessary. It soon appeared that prayers 
and commands were useless. Clemens freely declared that 
he would not obey his father, if his commands conflicted 
with the Christian religion. 

It became necessary for Chrysanteus to conquer all his 
scruples. He must inspire Clemens with doubts upon the 
truth of the teachings which separated their hearts and 
seemed to be the source of his gloom, his self-torture and 
fanaticism. Chrysanteus compelled Clemens to hear his 
attack upon the Christian religion, and his defence of the 
old. Clemens listened at first with contempt, then with an 
attention excited by terror. This feeling was caused less 
by the attack his father made upon Christianity, than by 
the similarity he showed between the most sublime doc- 
trines of Christianity and the New-Platonic philosophy. 
Such a similarity Clemens had not previously imagined, 
and it humbled him, it tormented him, that it really 
existed. 

Cleiflens had but one means of defence against his father, 
but this was a universal means, which could be used every- 
where with equal success. Chrysanteus’ views rested upon 
reason ; and reason, when it is not employed in behalf of 
the church, is of the devil ; and its deductions, in spite of all 
logic, entirely false. 

Upon this doctrine, implanted by Peter, all Chrysanteus’ 
endeavors to lead Clemens to a happier view of life, were 
stranded. He continued to fast, to scourge himself, and 
shun all contact with men. Long aftej, Chrysanteus had 


428 


The Last Athenian. 


despaired of accomplishing anything for the welfare of his 
unhappy son, his exertions began to bear fruit in Clemens’ 
soul, but a fruit that bore the stamp of the sickly soil in 
which it grew. 

He began to be assailed with doubts upon the truth of 
Christianity. His conversations with Peter restrained 
these doubts, it is true, hut did not conquer them. His 
condition became more critical than ever ; Chrysanteus 
feared for his reason, and the physicians he consulted, in 
his distress, confirmed his apprehensions. They advised 
him to desist from every attempt to convert Clemens, and 
permit him freely to visit his foster-father, that he might 
again become settled in the circle of ideas in which he had 
hitherto lived. 

The young reader again obtained access to the prisoner. 
Clemens dwelt upon the idea of running away to Antioch 
or the Egyptian desert. Peter forbade this, but could not 
overcome the extreme fear Clemens entertained of Chrysan- 
teus, and of every word that fell from his lips. Clemens 
now passed the greater portion of the day in strolling about 
the suburbs, and visiting his foster-father. The cave on the 
pillar -field became more and more the spot of his choice ; 
and the pious women, on their way to feed the holy Simon, 
soon grew accustomed to see him there and regard him as 
a new anchorite, whose presence heightened the sanctity of 
the place, and who, some day perchance, when Simon had 
been called to Heaven, would take his place upon the pillar. 

When the same pious women began, at last, to divide, not 
only their attention, but the contents of their baskets 
between the pillar-saint and the young anchorite who dwelt 
in the cave, he himself grew accustomed to regard this as 
his real home, and seldom showed himself at the house on 
Tripod street. Chrysanteus was compelled to grant him his 
liberty. Clemens was delighted with this new life. The 
roses of summer grew at the entrance of his cave, and tho 


The Last Athenian. 


429 


sun peeped in every evening before hiding himself behind 
iEgaleus. He soon fitted up his abode in accordance with 
his ascetic needs. A moss-bed, a water-jug, and a box for 
the holy Evangelists, was all he desired. 

The Athenian Christians felt no little edification at the 
remarkable dispensation which had selected the son of the 
arch-heatlien to be the new ornament of the pillar -field. 
Like Simon at the commencement of his career, Clemens 
was now an object of curiosity and sympathy. The young 
girls, especially, took a deep interest in the new eremite. 

The only thing which, in any way, cast a shadow over 
Clemens’ joy, was the strange demeanor of Simon, the pillar- 
saint. At first he received his neighbor with every mani- 
festation of pleasure ; and every evening, after the sun had 
gone down, and it was quiet around them, had called him to 
the pillar to talk with him and bless him. But gradually 
Simon became more and more cross and surly, and at last 
began to preach terrible reproofs, and curse the young 
eremite as regularly as he had before granted him- his 
blessing. 

For Simon had observed that Clemens was a rival in the 
attention and favor of visitors : he was jealous of his former 
darling, Elpinice’s son, and would frighten him away with 
his threats. 

Clemens ascribed this conduct to an entirely different 
motive. He believed that the saint’s sharp eye had gazed 
into his heart, and perceived its corruption. But Clemens 
sought in rain to pacify him with a rigid asceticism. In 
despair he turned to the bishop, and asked his advice. Peter 
exhorted him to bear patiently the saint’s wrath, because 
Simon only wished to prove his steadfastness ; he however 
sent . Euphemius with a message to Simon, after receiving 
which, he became apparently more calm, and left his neigh- 
bor in peace. 

27 


430 


The Last Athenian. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

AT MYRONS. 

Baruk and his intended son-in-law, the learned rabbi, 
had returned from Jerusalem. 

The journey had been prosperous. They landed at 
Piraeus, without the least suspicion of what had taken place 
in Baruk’s home during their absence. 

All the more terrible was the discovery awaiting them. 
Old Esther was dead ; broken down with shame and sorrow 
for her daughter. When Baruk stepped across the thresh- 
old of his house, Rachel threw herself at his feet. Her 
face was deathly pale and stamped with despair ; her hair, 
neglected for many days, hung wildly over her shoulders. 
A single look was sufficient to convince Baruk and J onas of 
her condition. The old man stood petrified with horror. 
He listened, without saying a word to Rachel, who prayed 
for mercy, and accused herself of her mother’s death. Then 
he burst out in piercing cries, tore his hair and cursed the 
moment which restored him to his dishonored hearth. 
Rabbi Jonas, the silent witness of this scene, stole quietly 
away. 

The same evening, Rachel, loaded with her father’s 
curses, was banished forever from his sight. 

Her prophecy to Charmides, that such a day would come, 
was fulfilled. 

We now find her in a miserable hovel, in one of the 
worst-reputed quarters of the harbor city. 

She is in a chamber, which bears witness to the most 
extreme poverty. Night is falling. The room is dimly 
lighted by a single lamp. Rachel holds to her bosom a 
child, Charmides’ son. The little one sleeps. The mother 
regards him with looks of passionate tenderness. 


The Last Athenian. 


431 


At that moment Charmides would hardly have recognized 
rich Baruk’s once handsome and happy daughter. The 
heavy strokes of fate had robbed her of the last traces of 
youth. Despair and motherly joy are contending in her 
wan face. Her sunken eyes shine with a feverish lustre. 

A step is heard upon the narrow stair way. The door is 
pulled open, and a woman, with a tunic carelessly thrown 
around her, enters, humming a tune. 

“ By Bacchus ! ” said Myro, for it was she, “ away with 
every care ! See what I have gathered this evening.’’ 

She threw some silver coins on the table and continued — 

“ That’s enough for three whole days for you and me and 
your boy. When the wind blows into the harbor, I am not 
yet too old to pluck laurels. Long life to love ! ” 

“ Hush,” whispered Rachel, pointing to the sleeping 
babe.. 

Myro, who was apparantly a little elevated with the juice 
of the grape, instantly toned down her loud voice. 

“Ah, he is asleep,” she said, bending over him. “How 
handsome he is, and how like Charmides ! You are blind, 
if you don’t see that he looks like Charmides, the seducer. 
How happy you ought to be, Rachel, to own such a treas- 
ure ! Live forgetfulness ! Away with all recollections ! 
The day we live, is ours. Will you sell the young one? 
Done, I’ll buy him — not for a slave, no, no, no, that was not 
my idea, — there, don’t look horrified — but because I like him, 

I want to have him. By the way, let me tell you, I have 
just ordered a cradle of our neighbor, the carpenter, for the 
urchin. A cradle is just the very thing he needs — and such 
a piece of furniture will not misbecome this room of ours. 
A cradle will give it a certain air of respectability, a sort of 
claim to regard and recognition.” 

“ You are so good to me,” said Rachel, as Myro stooped 
to light the coal in a chafing-dish, in readiness for supper. 

“ I can never repay your kindness.” 


432 


The Last Athenian . 


“ No need of it, either. To-day we are as rich as Persian 
princesses. We have money, wine, and a loaf of bread, 
which will taste first rate, when toasted.” 

“ When my father shut the door behind his daughter, 
and 1 wandered about in the night, it was you, who led me 
under your roof,” continued Bachel, with a deep sigh. 
u And ever since, you have been like the tenderest sister to 
me. The God of my fathers bless you, good Myro, and 
suffer you, should you be unfortunate, to meet a heart as 
merciful as yours has been towards me.” 

“ Bah ! I am satisfied, if you only have patience to listen 
to my curses of the men. One is so very like the other. 
Olympiodorus, believe me, isn’t a hair better than Charmi- 
des. I know both of them, indeed I do. I, who so often 
feigned love for Charmides to make Olympiodorus jealous. 
That was the time when I was called Myro the beautiful, 
and all Athens lay at my feet. You must know, Bachel, 
that I have had my brilliant day, that I have been adored 
and envied more than any one since Aspasia’s time. The 
priestesses at the port call me the dethroned queen. They 
do it to mock me, the painted furies, who stand down there 
with their flowers, which they offer, with themselves, to the 
first stranger — they mock me, because they have never been 
any better than they now are — but I am proud of the name 
“The dethroned queen.” Exactly. I might have been 
rich, had I given a thought to the future ; but I did not 
wish to do that — and I am not sorry for it now, either. I 
have lived in magnificent apartments, Bachel, and been 
carried in a golden palanquin by my own slaves, clad in 
byssos-fog, purple and jewels, I have floated from one pleas- 
ure to another. The handsomest, richest and merriest have 
been my body guard. But that is past now.” 

Myro fell to humming a tune again, as she continued 
preparing supper. 

It was soon ready — a few slices of toasted bread, some 
fruit, and in the middle of the table an earthen jug of wine. 


The Last Athenian. 


433 


“ Come now and enjoy the gifts of heaven and earth,” 
said Myro. “ One oblation to Bacchus, and then we will 
drink to our faithless lovers ! May they be eternally tor- 
mented in the nether world ! When Olympiodorus descends 
to the shades, I wonder how he will bear the doom which 
awaits him there. I shall be there and accuse him in 
the presence of the three inexorable judges. What will he 
say in his defence, when I make known that he has broken 
the thousand oaths he has sworn to me ? He will have no 
reply to make, for it won’t do to lie there. He will be sent 
to black Tartarus to suffer the pangs of Tantalus. Yet 
should he answer, that Myro had grown ugty, and that the 
vows he swore were only to Myro the beautiful, may he not 
perhaps go free after all? I am afraid he will. Yes, he is 
right, too. My claims were based upon my beauty alone, 
and I fell with it. But tell me truly, Rachel, am I really 
so horribly ugly, as people say ? — Hem. How I talk ! ” 
continued Myro, u and you don’t hear a word I say. But 
why won’t you eat, my poor friend ? You ought to be 
hungry as a wolf, for you have two to feed.” 

“ Ho, I cannot eat now,” said Rachel, “ I am not 
hungry.” 

“ You have been uncommonly calm to-day, at any rate. 
I have not seen you shed a tear. And this is right. It is 
no use to cry. Time is an excellent physician, who only 
takes life from us by degrees. In the mean while he heals 
our old wounds and cuts new ones, in order to have some- 
thing to do. The best balsam he owns, however, is wine. 
It contains both joy and oblivion. Come then ; empty at 
least one cup. It will do you good, Rachel.” 

“ Ho, I am not thirsty, either. In a little while, per- 
haps ” 

“ You need not be thirsty to like wine. Look here,” said 
Myro, rising from the table and giving Rachel a full cup. 
“ Just try, and I swear it will do you good.” 


434 


The Last Athenian. 


Rachel took a sip, to please her well-meaning friend. 
Myro was not so backward ; she scrupulously left untouched 
half the supper for Rachel, but paid her addresses to the 
wine jug all the more zealously, since she was forced to 
entertain it alone. It had been her custom of late to drink 
herself drunk every evening, when the opportunity offered. 

“ Do you know, Rachel,” continued the talkative Myro, 
“ I saw that little dark-looking fellow again to-day wander- 
ing up and down the street before the house. My eyes 
deceive me very much if he is not one of your people. 
You Jews have a peculiar stamp, and you all, it seems to 
me, are very like one another. I feel sure that he seeks 
none other than yourself. Perhaps your father has begun 
to relent and will restore you to his house, or at least send 
help to you. If you had not so strictly forbidden me, I 
should have stopped the man, and said : You are seeking 
Rachel, Baruk’s daughter, are you not ? I will lead you to 
her.” 

“ No, Myro, I beseech you in the name of God above, 
say it not, should you ever chance to meet him again.” 

“ Your father is a heartless, miserly wolf,” said Myro, 
who began, to be sensibly affected by her oft repeated pota- 
tions. “ To conduct himself so against his own child ! I 
will tear out old Baruk’s eyes one of these days. He 
should have stroked his beard, thanked God, and considered 
himself lucky to have received from you such a pretty little 
soul of a grandson ! Instead of this he turns you out of 
doors and leaves you to die in the street. Is not this horri- 
ble ? Is it not heartless ? 0, it is enough to make my 

heart melt in my bosom, only to think of it.” 

Myro, who, under the influence of wine w T as as sensitive 
as garrulous, wiped her eyes, suddenly filled with tears. 

“ Do not speak an unkind word of my father,” implored 
Rachel ; “ the fault is mine. My folly has killed my 
mother, and made my father’s name a by-word. He knows 


The Last Athenian. 


435 


not whither to flee, to hide his shame. Could I hut weep 
as you, I should shed tears of blood over my guilt. May 
God have mercy on me ! My burden is greater than I can 
hear.” 

“ Bah,” said Myro, “ are you guilty because you loved 
and were betrayed ? ” 

“ Because I have broken my parents’ commands and the 
law of my people,” said Rachel. “ Our God is a mighty 
avenger, who visits the iniquities of fathers and mothers 
upon their children. By my disobedience and folly I have 
killed my mother. It is awful, Myro. I have before my 
eyes, the very moment when I could no longer conceal from 
her my condition. She turned pale as death, and was dumb 
with terror. I was not permitted to come near her bed 
while she was sick. She died, surrounded by servants. 
But she is eve r present before my eyes, by day and by night. 
I tell you, Myro, last night she stood at my bed side, dumb, 
pale, and threatening. She pointed to the little one, to 
remind me, that he shall suffer for my crime, ” 

“Hem, that is frightful,” said Myro. “But then it is 
only your imagination, dear Rachel. Otherwise it would 
be horrible to be near you at night, when your mother 
returns. We will let the lamp burn until morning. I shall 
not dare to be in the dark after this. To think that your 
mother cannot rest quietly in her grave ! You must have 
done something awful, according to your nation’s idea,, 
though, for my part, I think you have only loved and been 
betrayed, poor girl. But have we any oil, Rachel ? Think, 
if we have not oil for the lamp ! ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ I will see,” said Myro, as, almost sober from sudden 
fear, she rose from the sofa. She commenced searching in 
a cupboard crowded with jugs and bottles, whole and 
broken, but could not have found what she sought, for she 
clasped her hands and exclaimed : 


436 The Last Athenian . 

“ Merciful gods ! What shall I do ? Not a drop of oil 
left.” 

“ Myro, she does not seek you, hut me. You can sleep in 

peace 0 my God, my God, where can I find peace and 

forgiveness ? Not among men. My people have cast me 
off. I am blotted out from Israel. Be merciful, Lord ! I 
flee from man to Thee. I lay myself and my babe at Thy 
feet ! Reject us not. Pity at least the innocent one.” 

“ The oil in the lamp will last an hour,’* said Myro to 
herself, as she examined it. Then she turned again to the 
wine jug, to imbibe strength for overcoming her fear of 
ghosts. “ But Rachel dear, don’t take on so ! It sounds 
terribly, and when you talk so, I feel something within my- 
self, as if I also might be guilty. But thank the gods, I 
am not. I was educated for a courtesan and have lived 
merrily, but never have I broken the laws of the gods. I 
have never caused my parents any sorrow 7 , for they never 
knew me, nor I them. I ought to sleep w 7 ell enough with- 
out fearing ghosts. But you have completely chased sleep 
from my eyes, Rachel. It is going to be an unpleasant 
night.” 

“ Forgive me, Myro. I will try not to disturb you any 
more.” 

“ If you will only cease lamenting, it will be well enough. 
Let us talk about something pleasant, continued Myro, 
throwing herself upon the sofa, and spreading her tunic 
over herself as a coverlet : “ the lamp will burn an hour 

longer, and after that I shall try to sleep ^Let me see — 

Yes, I tell you, Rachel, you will soon be all right again. 
The stronger the sorrow, the shorter it lasts. You are 
young, and the future is before you. I think about your 
future very often, because you grieve so over the present. 
Wait a little, the roses will return to your cheeks and the 
fire to your eyes. You will be handsome again and excite 
the admiration of the gentlemen. It depends upon your- 


The Last Athenian. 


437 


self, whether or no you will make your fortune. Just 
think, Rachel, to live in magnificent rooms, to have jewels 
and the most splendid clothes, to own slaves, to be sought 
after and envied, to haste from pleasure to pleasure and see 
the noblest youths at your feet ! You can be another Myro, 
a new queen, ruling with the sceptre of Lais and Phyrne. 
You can be all this, if you only will. And with such a 
future before you, how can you be sad and dejcted ? Trust 
to me ! I will help you to your throne, and show you how 
to conquer your rivals. I know all the secrets by which 
beauty is heightened, and all the arts which make it irre- 
sistible. This is something I have studied from chidlhood, 
and had thoroughly mastered by the time I was fourteen. 
And ever since, you may well believe, I have plied my art. 
Praxinoa was nothing to me. You will be queen, and I 
will reserve to myself the office of queen’s adviser. The 
first thing we must do, will be to move from this wretched 
hovel to some handsome lodgings on Ceramicus. The 
next will be to get some magnificent clothes for you, hire 
a palanquin and some servants. I w r ill take all this upon 
myself. I have .only to go to a merchant, who does this 
sort of business, show you to him, and extol your qualities, 
— I understand this too, you had better believe — I have 
helped more than one girl along in the world — and he will 
give us all we need to begin with. I rejoice at the thought 
of your future, Rachel. Drive away sorrow, my girl ! Live, 
wine and love ! ” 

She put the jug to her lips ; then trimmed the lamp and 
placed it beside the head of her couch. 

This was not the first time Rachel had heard Myro talk 
in this way; and every time it had given her a secret 
terror, and increased the sense of debasement which crushed 
her. 

But at this moment Myro’s description of the future did 
not make its customary impression upon Baruk’s unhappy 


438 


The Last Athenian. 


daughter ; she only caught the sound of the words, her 
thoughts were elsewhere. 

Myro did not perceive the desperate look in her great 
dark eyes, since the long eyelashes threw their shadow over 
them. Rachel sat beside the sleeping babe, pressing her 
hands against her breast. Her lips mechanically muttered 
a prayer she had learned in her infancy. Myro heard the 
unintelligible sound of a strange language, and asked : 

“What is that you are saying ? You are talking to 
yourself. Drive away your gloomy thoughts. They will 
kill you, and then all our hopes will be at an end. Alas, 
that seducer Charmides ! He is the cause of your misfor- 
tune. And now he forgets you, and is going to celebrate 
his wedding with another. Did I tell you, that I saw 
Charmides to-day ? ” 

Rachel started up from her thoughts at this name, fas- 
tened her looks upon Myro, and inquired, in a weak voice : 

“ What was it you said about Charmides ? ” 

“ That I saw him to-day, on the street,” answered Myro, 
pleased at having found a subject of conversation which 
won Rachel’s attention. “ May the gods punish the faith- 
less wretch ! He does not seem to have any conscience at 
all. He looked so happy, as he walked by Hermione’s 
side.” 

“ He looked happy, you say, and he walked by Hermi- 
one’s side ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ When will their wedding take place ? ” 

“ In a few days. The whole city is talking about it.” 

“Do you see them often, together?” 

“ Yes. Almost every day,” said Myro, “ as they are 
passing to and from the beautiful villa Chrysanteus owns, 
over the port.” 

“Oh, how happy they must be with each other ! ” sighed 
Rachel. 


The Last Athenian. 


439 


“ Yes, but I hope their happiness will not be lasting,” 
exclaimed Myro. “ I hate Charmides equally with Olym- 
piodorus. I have often been strongly tempted to go to 
Hermione and tell her who Charmides is, for I know him 
better than any one else ; but I am afraid of meeting him, 
for if he should only see how ugly I have grown — Oh, it is 
awful to lose your beaut}", Rachel. I am ashamed to be 
seen by Charmides ; I hide myself whenever I catch sight 
of him at a distance, upon the street. If lie should imagine 
what had become of Myro ! Oh, I believe I would rather 
die ! The envious gods, who have robbed me of the best 
I possessed ; the only thing on which I placed any value ! 
I will hate the gods, too, now. I have nothing more to 
hope or fear from them — if they will only keep ghosts, and 
such things, away from my bed, for sleep is my best friend, 
now, and I have always been afraid of ghosts. But why 
don’t you lie down, Rachel? Do you know I am beginning 
to get sleepy ? ” 

Drowsiness, however, did not prevent Myro from still 
continuing the conversation or rather monologue. 

u You are obstinate, Rachel, or else you would have fol- 
lowed my advice long ago, when I told you to take your 
boy in your arms, go to Hermione, and tell her that he is 
Charmides’ son. She would then have questioned you about 
your life, and you would have told her all you have suffered. 
What do you think Hermione would have done? For my 
part, 1 am convinced she would have said, 1 It is you, who 
are entitled to Charmides’ hand. I will banish him from 
my sight.’ But you will not do it ; and this is where you 
do wrong, Rachel.” 

“ They are happy, they love each other. He has foL 
gotten me. Your words are tempting, Myro. I often feel 
inclined to follow your advice. But shame holds me back. 
I cannot.” 

“ Jealousy is a horrible tormentor, Rachel. Thank your 


440 


The Last Athenian. 


God, that it has not visited you. It transforms the heart 
to a nest of serpents, from which dart a thousand poisonous 
stings, to lacerate our life.” 

“ That I know,” thought Rachel. 

Myro’s wine-enlivened tongue began at last to grow 
heavy. After talking a little longer in a very mixed and 
uncertain manner, she became silent, and her breathing 
soon bore witness that she had sunk into deep sleep. 

Rachel now took the child in her arms and arose. The 
little boy awoke and begun to cry, but grew still as she 
clasped him to her breast. She wrapped him carefully in 
the veil, now faded, which Baruk once gave his daughter, 
that she might shine in the synagogue ; went to the door, 
stopped there, cast one more look about the miserable cham- 
ber and said, as her eyes fell upon the sleeping Myro : 

u Farewell, good unhappy sister! Rachel thanks you 
for your benevolence and tenderness. May God have 
mercy on you for the sake of your good heart.” 

After these words she left the chamber, passed down the 
narrow^stair way, and took a street leading to the harbor. 

The vast harbor square, surrounded by temples, porticoes 
and store-houses, lay silent and empty beneath the starry 
vault of heaven. The stillness of the night was only 
broken by the plash of waves, dashing against the quay. 

Rachel listened to their sighing but refreshing tones. 
They seemed to her like a command not to hesitate, — a 
friendly whispering from the sea, that its bosom was open 
to lull her unhappy heart to rest. 

She directed her steps toward the spot whence the 
exhorting song had reached her ears. Undiscovered, she 
reached one of the broad marble stair ways, leading down 
to the water. She bent over, and a wave tossed its foam 
upon her forehead. It felt fresh and reviving. 

The babe she bore in her arms, grew restless, and began 
to moan. Rachel quieted the little one with kisses and 


The Last Athenian . 


441 


caressing words. Then she loosed the veil, in which he 
was bound, and tied it tightly about herself and him, that 
they might not be separated in the wide grave, where she 
sought rest from jealousy, abasement, and the pangs of con- 
science. 

Pressing the pledge of her unhappy love to her bosom, 
she went, with closed eyes, toward the edge of the steps. 

At that moment, a sailor, keeping watch on board the 
nearest vessel, heard the sound of a heavj' body falling into 
the water. The darkness prevented him from seeing what 
it was, and as he heard no cry for help, he gave it no fur- 
ther heed, but turned to thinking of the approaching voyage 
and his home on a distant shore. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE MORGUE. 

When Mj-ro awoke next morning, she found herself 
alone in her chamber. 

Wondering where Rachel and her child could have gone, 
but with no suspicion of calamity, she set about making 
her toilet for the day. 

This was done with great care, and the help of a little 
metal mirror, a comb, and two boxes of paint. 

Poor Myro was compelled, however, to admit that this 
care was the same as wasted. Sighing, she looked at her- 
self in the mirror. The sickness she had passed through, 
had stolen her rich locks and fresh complexion, once her 
pride. Her hair had grown very thin, and she had never 
since had the means of purchasing false tresses. Her face 
was bloated with continual libations to the wine-god, and 
her skin sallow. This last fault could certainly be obviated 


442 


The Last Athenian . 


by a skillful use of the contents of the boxes — and Myro 
was a mistress in the arts of the toilet — but she was never- 
theless forced at last to confess for the hundredth time, 
that the greatest endeavors were almost fruitless. Art 
could not replace the gifts nature had taken back. Poor 
Myro sighed deeply, and when she examined the faded 
tunic she to-day had chosen, — the best she owned — tears 
filled her eyes. 

This occupation took up a good deal of the forenoon, and 
it was not until she had finished, and stood ready to go out 
and try her luck for the day, that she again thought of her 
room-mate and friend. 

“ But where can Rachel be ? She, who never could be * 
induced to leave the chamber a moment in the day time ! ” 

Myro began to be seriously troubled about her absence. 
She recalled the extraordinary calmness her friend had man- 
ifested, the previous evening. But she would not yet give 
a place to the horrible thought, which now arose within her. 
In spite of her wretched and despicable condition, she her- 
self was afraid of death, and could not believe that one of 
her sex would have sufficient decision to cast herself volun- 
tarily into the unknown, gloomy Hades. Myro hurried to 
her neighbor, the carpenter, to inquire if he had perchance 
seen her friend ; if he kuew at what time she had gone out, 
and which direction she took. The carpenter, who. had just 
commenced working upon the cradle that Myro was to give 
her little darling, Rachel’s son, could not give the desired 
information. He only shook his head, and hinted that the 
worst had happened ; he had seen the poor Jewess only 
once, when he accidentally met her on the stairs, but he 
then noticed in her eyes a something which he now, for the 
first time, rightly understood. 

Smitten with grief, Myro left this wretched comforter and 
returned to her chamber, to try to compose herself and 
think over what she ought to do. The poor courtesan had 
conceived a warm affection for her unhappy sister. 


The Last Athenian. 


443 


In- Rachel, she had found a being much more unfortunate 
than herself ; in spite of her own need, she had been able 
to show her an active sympathy and succor her, when help- 
less, and deserted by those nearest her. This was the only 
pure joy Myro had for a long time experienced ; she had 
also felt herself lighter and happier in mind, ever since 
Rachel came beneath her roof, and the care she bestowed 
upon mother and child had, in her eyes, diminished the 
shame of the traffic which gave her means to carry on this 
work of mercy. 

As she now endeavored to comfort herself about Rachel’s 
absence, and to seek after some quieting and probable 
cause for the same, it occurred to her that during last eve- 
ning’s conversation, she had again advised Rachel, to re- 
pair, with her child, to Hermione, and establish her claim 
upon Charmides. Myro now strove to persuade herself 
that Rachel had followed this counsel, and gone to Chrysan- 
teus’ villa, beyond Pirseus. 

She concluded to take a walk in the direction of the 
villa. Perhaps she would meet Rachel on the way, or gain 
some information about her. She felt too uneasy to stay at 
home, and in doubt await her friend’s return. Besides, the 
day was lovely and invited to a stroll. So Myro started 
out. But nowhere did she find any trace of the lost one. 
No one had seen a woman with a child in her arms, whose 
appearance and clothing were like Rachel’s. Myro ven- 
tured at last to go on to the villa, itself, and ask the porter 
the same questions she had put to every one she met. But 
he knew no more than they. Discouraged, she resolved to 
return to the harbor-city. The road she chose, wound 
along the sea shore and was shaded by olive and plane 
trees. Upon the glittering water, far from the strand, 
were seen two boats, splendidly gilded and adorned with 
garlands, advancing with slow stroke to the music of voices 
and the cithara. Myrfs sharp eye detected in one boat. 


444 


The Last Athenian. 


Charmides and Hermione, lovingly seated side by side. 
The other boat contained some young friends of the 
betrothed. How perfectly this joyous, captivating scene 
harmonized with the clear sky, the quiet sea and the ver- 
dant shores. But Myro looked on, with bitter feelings, 
thinking of her unhappy friend, and of her own contempti- 
ble, joyless condition. What if Rachel, also, had witnessed 
this spectacle? Could she have endured the sight and 
lived? Myro felt that there was a despair, blacker than 
she herself, in her most miserable moments, had experi- 
enced, and for which death, instead of being a terror, was 
the only comforter. 

Sunk in such meditations, she had paused and was still * 
looking at the boats, gliding slowly over the water, when 
a man approached, whom she had often met in the streets 
of Athens, and of whom she had heard much. It was the 
priest, Theodorus. 

She knew that this man had converted to Christianity 
some of her lowest-fallen sisters, that he had inspired these 
women with the desire, and given them the opportunity of 
entering upon, another and better way of life. His noble 
and friendly bearing had always pleased Myro, yet she 
felt a secret fear of him, and whenever it was possible, 
avoided his serious, piercing gaze. 

Theodorus also recognized the woman in the faded tunic. 
He had seen her radiant with joy and health, clad in costly 
apparel, and borne by slaves, in a golden palanquin. His 
heart pitied her then, not less than now. 

The courtesan was soon convinced that she was not un- 
known to him, for he called her by name, Myro ; and when 
he discovered in her face a trace of emotion, he stopped, 
and commenced talking with her. 

The manner in which Theodorus advanced his questions 
and answered Myro’s was such, that like a magic key, it 
opened her heart to him. As they walked towards the city, 
she told him not only her own history, but also Rachel’s. 


The Last Athenian. 


445 


When they arrived in the neighborhood of the “ Long 
Walls,” they separated. Theodoras betook himself to a 
sick member of his congregation, while Myro hastened 
home to see if Rachel had not returned during her absence. 
But before parting, she had promised Theodorus to call, 
the next evening, at the house of an estimable Christian 
lady, renowned for her benevolence, and there meet him. 

It was already dusk when Myro arrived at her lodging. 
It was empty, and bore no trace of Rachel. But in a little 
while her neighbor, the friendly carpenter, entered. Iiis 
face was very pale, as he asked if she had learned where 
Rachel and her child were. 

Myro answered, that she had sought her friend in vain, 
at Chrysanteus’ villa. 

“And I, who did not seek her, have nevertheless seen 
her,” said the carpenter. “ Oh, it was awful ! The poor 
girl! I said so, before — I saw.it in her eyes. Ho matter 
about finishing the cradle, it will never be needed.” 

“ Wliat do you say ? What has happened to them ? 
Where did you see them ? ” 

“ As I was crossing the harbor market, just now, I 
noticed a crowd of people down by the quay, and went to 
see what was the matter. I thought they were taking some 
drowned person from the water, and instantly fell to think- 
ing, I assure you, of the poor Jewess. I followed the 
crowd. They went towards the morgue, where drowned 
people are exposed to view, that they may be recognized by 
their relations or friends — ” 

“ And was it Rachel they had found in the water ? ” 
cried Myro, sorrowfully. 

u Yes, yes. Rachel and her boy. Two other corpses 
had already been recovered, and they lay stretched out upon 
the black benches, looking horribly, you may believe. But 
what was that in comparison with seeing her ! It was not 
exactly awful, but it was so sad. She had bound the babe 
28 


446 


The Last Athenian. 


tight to her breast, and clasped her arms hard about it. 
Praised be the gods, that the sea could not keep its prey. 
It is some comfort to know that her shade will not he com- 
pelled to wander forever on the banks of the Styx, but will 
reach its destination, and be at peace, in the world below.” 

This ground of consolation, derived from a popular super- 
stition, that the souls of the drowned could not obtain rest 
in Hades until their corpses had been recovered and com- 
mitted to the earth, was of little avail in alleviating Myro’s 
grief. She hid her face in her tunic, and wept bitterly. As 
soon as the first outburst of anguish was over, she repaired 
to the morgue. An inquisitive throng was gathered there 
looking at the drowned girl and her babe, who seemeu* 
to be asleep on her bosom. They wondered who she was ; 
no one recognized her. But all were moved by the sorrow- 
ful spectacle. 

Myro pressed through the crowd, and had scarce caught 
sight of her friend’s pale face, which, even in death, retained 
the stamp of deep, incurable distress, before she again gave 
vent to her tears and lamentations. 

“ Myro, you know her ! ” “ Who was she ? ” “ Did she 

seek death of her own accord ? Or has she perished, with 
her child, by violence ? ” 

Such questions were addressed to Myro, by the bjr- 
standers. 

“ So she was a courtesan,” said another. “ Such women 
commence with joy, and end with despair. It is the old 
story.” 

“No,” exclaimed Myro, “she never was a courtesan, — 
never a fallen and despised woman, such as I ! Let no one 
insult the poor girl with such a name. Was she not 
unhappy enough in life, to be free from shame in death ? 
It is Rachel, Baruk’s daughter, — the rich broker, — you all 
know him. If you will deal justly, do not condemn her, 
but Charmides, who seduced her, and the stern father, who 


The Last Athenian. 447 

drove her from his house, while she still bore the babe in 
her bosom ! ” 

Myro could say no more ; sobs stifled her voice. But 
what she had said made a strong impression upon the 
crowd, who vied with each other in expressing sympathy 
for the dead, and anger at those who had caused her mis- 
fortune. It was, however, less the faithless lover, than the 
grim father, against whom their wrath was spoken. 

“ He shall know now, what he has done,” said Myro. 
“ I will find him, and bring him hither. If he has a heart 
for anything besides his gold, he will repent of his cruelty ; 
but his repentance comes too late, and this will he his ever- 
lasting punishment.” 

Myro hurried away. Most of her hearers followed her, 
to vent their anger upon the rich broker, and see how he 
received the news of his daughter’s death. 

The crowd, led by Myro, proceeded first to Baruk’s place 
of business, near by. But the day’s work was over, and 
they did not find him they sought. The tireless Myro now 
hastened to his dwelling, in the quarter Scambonidae. The 
way was long, and many of her inquisitive followers fell 
off before she arrived at the house, on the top of the hill. 
She found the door locked. She seized the knocker and 
plied it, till the door was at length opened. An old servant 
with Jewish face, showed himself, and inquired her errand. 

“ I will speak with Baruk,” said Myro, trying to force 
her way in. 

The servant held her back, for he recognized her by the 
light of the door lamp, and noticed her excited appear- 
ance. 

“My master is sick,” he said, “and cannot receive 
callers. I will tell him whatever you wish.” 

“ No, I will do it myself.” 

“She shall do it herself — We, ourselves, will do it,” 
echoed her followers, to the consternation of the servant, 


448 


The Last Athenian. 


who, instantly mistrusting that violence was intended, shut 
and barred the door. Immediately after, a little port-hole 
in it was opened, and the servant’s voice was heard again : 

“But what is the matter? You have heard that my 
master is sick, and must know that I cannot let a lot of 
strangers into the court. Tell me your errand, and I will 
convey it to him.” 

“ If your master is not too sick to get up and put on his 
mantle, he shall follow me,” said Myro. 

“ Tell him,” said another, “ that we have a greeting 
from his — ” 

“ Silence,” interrupted Myro, “ tell him nothing. He 
shall know nothing, until he beholds with his own eyes. 
We wish to speak with him, that is enough. Beg him to 
come out. It is a matter of much gold and great gains. 
Tell him that ! ” 

The port-hole was shut, and they heard the servant’s 
step as he walked away. 

It was a long time before the gate was again opened. 
Those waiting outside manifested their impatience, by 
repeated poundings with the knocker. At last, a little, sor- 
rowful, black-bearded man appeared, clad in a caftan. 

“ My friends, what do you wish ? ” he asked in a mild 
voice, stepping into the street. 

“ You are not Baruk,” exclaimed Myro. “We want to 
speak with the rich broker and not with you ! ” 

“Baruk is sick in bed. I am his friend and relative, 
Rabbi Jonas, and whatever you would tell him, you can 
tell me.” 

“ Do 3 r ou know his daughter, Rachel, also ? ” they 
asked. 

“ Yes,” answered he. “What of her?” 

“ You shall see,” said Myro. 

“ And shall tell Baruk what you have seen, as clearly as 
if he saw it with his own eyes, — ” 


The Last Athenian. 449 

“The miser, the hard-hearted wretch,” exclaimed 
another. 

“ I will follow you. What has happened to the woman 
of whom you speak, and where will you lead me ? ” 

“ You shall soon know.” 

Rabbi Jonas followed the throng, and heard, without 
answering, the insults showered upon Baruk and all Israel. 
Myro had taken tight hold of his hand, as if she feared he 
would escape. He did not try to draw it away, but walked 
calmly by her side. 

When they arrived at the harbor market, and the Rabbi 
noticed they were heading for the torch-lit house of the dead, 
he stopped, and gasped for breath. He was prepared for a 
sorrowful, touching spectacle ; he now guessed what had 
taken place. 

But he conquered his emotion and followed Myro, who 
cried : “ Come, come ! ” 

At this moment, a small boat lay to at the principal steps 
of the quay, beneath the two marble lions, which orna- 
mented the harbor-market, and Charmides, who was re- 
turning from Chrysanteus’ villa, stepped on shore. 

We already know, that he had passed the evening with 
Hermione, sailing along shores adorned with the luxu- 
riant magnificence of summer. This excursion, enliv- 
ened by the gaiety of the company, and tones of music, 
had, however, been embittered to Charmides by a vision, 
which he ascribed to his own imagination rather than 
reality. 

Starting from a little cove, that bathed the foot of the 
terrace on which Chrysanteus’ country-seat was built, their 
sail had been extended to the neighborhood of the harbor. 
Passing around a little tree-crowned island, lying east of 
the harbor, Charmides, in looking out over the sun-lit sea, 
fancied he saw toss up out of the waves, a human head, 
encircled by long raven locks, whose pale face, as it appeared 


450 


The Last Athenian . 


for a moment above the surface, bore the features of Baruk’s 
daughter. Beside this head, he seemed to see another — but 
the vision vanished as quickly as it came, in the bosom of 
the Protean sea, which begets so many wonderfully strange 
images. 

Charmides was silent about the vision, and thought it 
fortunate that none other than he had seen it. He turned 
to Hermione, who sat by his side, and continued with her 
the whispering on the beauty of nature, their common 
recollections of childhood, and the joys of love ; but the 
words gradually died from his lips, and he sank into a 
silence which was not that of happy, dreaming ecstacy. 

His intercourse with Hermione had not failed to exert a * 
powerful influence upon Charmides. He loved her, at that 
moment, with a love free from all calculation. The unex- 
pected discovery which restored the lost Philip to his 
father’s house, had caused Peter to fear that Charmides, 
disappointed in his hope of being the sole heir to Chrysan- 
teus’ wealth, would commit some act which might betray 
the original motive of his seeking Hermione, and his suc- 
cessful attempt to renew his engagement with her. Peter’s 
fears were not confirmed. It never occurred to Charmides 
to regard Clemens and his being recognized as Chrysanteus’ 
legitimate son from such a stand-point. Charmides had 
shared Hermione’s joy at finding her brother, and lamented 
with her his unhappy state of mind. His contempt for 
money conduced to this ; for since he was no longer haunted 
by creditors, but again found himself enjoying the money- 
lender’s full confidence, he forgot also his ruined condition, 
and lived as before, in the enjoyment of the day, although 
this now bore other features, and owned a nobler character 
than before. 

His joy during these later days had, however, been far 
from pure, — it was troubled by a voice from within. He 
strove to be worthy of his happiness, yet could not, for 


The Last Athenian. 


451 


between it and him stood threatening memories, and among 
them the pale, sorrowing figure of Baruk’s daughter. Her- 
mione did not know the relation he had sustained to this un- 
happy young woman. 

She had heard it spoken of, hut did not believe the rumoi 
after Charmides, with sacred oaths, had denied its truth. 
He had not dared to give her that perfect confidence, to 
which he felt she was entitled. He perceived he had acted 
treacherously, and not only in this respect and towards 
her alone. There was another circumstance whose weight 
he would diminish to himself, but which, nevertheless, in 
certain moments of reflection, terrified him. He had been 
secretly baptized. He was thus bound to the Christian 
church with a bond which truly did not in the least touch 
his inner man, but which was acknowledged by the law 
and universal consent as indissoluble, and with which his 
own superstition had united a mystic meaning. 

It could not long be concealed that Charmides had 
‘received baptism. The secret Was in Peter’s power, and it 
was certain that he would sometime make use of it to deal 
Chrysanteus a heavy blow. At that hour Charmides would 
stand before Hermione and her father as an impostor, and 
also as a contemptible tool in Peter’s hands. 

So Charmides’ future heaven was not without clouds. He 
was burdened with a feeling of unworthiness, and at times 
with very serious upbraidings of conscience. 

Such a moment was that, when he landed at the lion 
stairway of Piraeus, to cross the market place to his house. 

The sad vision which the sea had suddenly revealed to 
him, kept before his eyes with redoubled clearness after he 
had left Hermione and her joyous friends, and the dusk of 
evening spread its veil over everything which could divert 
his eyes and thoughts. 

While occupied with this unpleasant image, his eyes hap- 
pened to fall upon the morgue, before which a rosin link 


452 


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cast its light, and through whose open doors were seen the 
anxious and the curious, who gazed upon the dead. 

Charmides felt a shudder run through his limbs. Was 
that pale face which arose from the sea, and which yet stared 
upon him, a creature of his imagination, or was it, perhaps, a 
reality ? the black benches of the dead-house might be able 
to answer. 

He stood still a moment, then directed his steps towards 
the sorrowful spot. It was not curiosity which drove him ; 
it was a horrid foreboding he would silence, — it was his 
conscience which, with compelling power, bore him there. 
But he stopped upon the threshold, for the first that met 
his eyes, were the corpses of Rachel and her child, laid out 
upon one of the benches. 

Was this also a deceptive vision? Was it fancy, which 
conjured up this form with Rachel’s features and dark locks 
— with arms tightly clasped about a tender being, whose 
livid face" lay pressed against her bosom. 

He heard the lookers-on say, “It is Rachel, Baruk’s 
daughter.” The words rang in his ears like an accusation 
for murder, and his horror-stricken face, his sullen look, 
declared him guilty. 

At this moment Myro arrived, with the Rabbi Jonas and 
the people who had accompanied her on her search after 
Baruk. Charmides was compelled to make room for them, 
and withdraw from the door, as they entered. 

Rabbi Jonas approached the corpse. His manner was 
calm ; only a tremor of the lip betrayed the emotion in his 
soul. 

“ It is Baruk’s daughter,” he said. “ Where is the 
superintendent ? I wish to speak with him concerning the 
burial of the dead girl and her child.” 

The superintendent of the morgue was present. The 
Rabbi turned to him, taking from his girdle a purse of 
money. This, was done with a coolness that surprised 


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453 


every one, and filled Myro with an anger which would 
immediately have found vent, had she not, at the same 
instant, caught sight of Charmides. 

“ Ah, are you here, my Charmides ? ” she exclaimed. Is 
it to rejoice over your handiwork? What gods have steered 
your course hither? Were they the Furies? Look here, 
Charmides, here is Rachel, your betrothed, and here is your 
son, your own son, Charmides ! ” 

At the name Charmides, Rabbi Jonas turned about. 
His composed eyes, now glaring with a repressed fire, met 
Charmides’ shy look, as he stole away, accompanied by 
Myro’s loud-ringing scorn, and the silent curses of the rest. 

It was now Rabbi Jonas’ turn. But Myro’s bitterness 
quickly dissolved in tears. She threw herself down by 
Rachel, and wept. 

After the Rabbi, whose composure seemed imperturbable, 
had agreed with the superintendent as to the cost of the 
burial, and paid for it, he replaced the purse in his girdle 
and prepared to depart. But at the sight of Myro’s tears 
he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and bade her follow him. 
He accompanied this request with a look which made it 
irresistible. Myro, who fancied that he had a heart of 
stone, that he was a hard man of per-cents, and nothing 
else, was amazed at the expression in his eyes. 

“ You grieve for her,” whispered the rabbi. u You must 
have known her when alive. I want you to tell me about 
her last days. But let us go out where we shall be undis- 
turbed. I was betrothed to Rachel. Need I say more ? ” 

Myro followed him. She had recognized, in Rabbi Jonas, 
the little dark fellow, who was often seen before the house 
where she lived. 

She guessed now it was compassion, or some such motive, 
that had so often led him thither. She recollected, also, that 
Rachel had spoken of a learned and estimable man, whom 
Baruk had intended for his daughter’s husband, and Myro’s 


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heart became more benevolently turned towards the rich 
broker’s relative, so that she even repented of pouring so 
much bitterness upon his head. 

They sat down upon the pedestal of one of the statues, 
and she related to his attentive ear the closing scenes of 
Rachel’s life. 

He listened without a word ; but his silence was not that 
of heartlessness or indifference ; Myro felt this by a sympa- 
thetic impulse. 

When she had finished her story, the Rabbi, with a 
slightly tremulous voice, requested her to show Rachel and 
her child the last tribute of respect — to follow them, next 
morning, at a time he named, from the dead-house to the 
burying place for unknown drowned persons, where it was 
decided she should rest. He could not do this himself, 
without breaking the holy law of his people. 

Myro wondered at such a law, but promised, with tears, to 
fulfil his wishes. 

Rabbi Jonas pressed her hand almost violently, and 
departed. 

She returned to her lonely lodging. 

Next morning, she arose early to accompany her friend 
and her little darling to the grave. Two slaves bore the 
coffin, holding both mother and babe, to the lonely, unhon- 
ored cemetery. The courtesan, in her tattered garments, 
followed : her tears were the only sacrifice offered to their 
shades. 

Myro was very sad and dejected all day. She did not, 
however, forget her promise to Theodorus, the Christian 
priest. Toward evening, she repaired to the house where 
she was to meet him. 

She found assembled there, a number of men and women, 
all Christians, but of different classes and conditions. She 
was received in a friendly manner by them all. Theodorus 
had prepared them for her coming. They were met 


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455 


together, to hear the word proclaimed by Theodoras. Myro, 
ashamed and embarrassed in the company of these respec- 
table and earnest people, sat down alone by the door, far 
away from the other hearers, when Theodoras arose, and 
commenced. He spoke of sin and salvation. Sin had 
been for M;yro, until now, an almost unknown idea, but 
when Theodoras explained it, it seemed as if her conscious- 
ness had of itself grown clear, and disclosed the features of 
a truth which, though veiled, had long stood before the 
eyes of her soul. 

After sin, Theodorus spoke of salvation. He did not 
point out its place in any dogmatic system of doctrine, he 
only read and developed the simple story of her who pressed 
her way into the house of Simon the Pharisee — while Jesus 
sat at meat with him — to cast herself at His feet, wash them 
with her tears, and wipe them with the hair of her head. 
This woman, said Theodorus, certainly felt, at least at times, 
sorrow for her sins. Perhaps she had a frivolous disposi- 
tion, which allowed her to drive away self-reproach, but she 
must have found her wretched joys often changing into tor- 
ment, have felt the most horrible thing humanity can 
endure — despair, under the mask of happiness. 

Myro thought of herself at these words. 

Where should she find consolation ? Could the people 
about her, give it? She presents herself suddenly before 
Jesus. The first sight of Him told her, what the weary, 
whose pangs of soul and body He has healed, have con- 
firmed, that He is pure and holy. She had heard of His 
compassion for sinners, and an unconquerable emotion pros- 
trated her at His feet. Her despair was instantly resolved 
into tenderness, love and gratitude. She expected, perhaps, 
that He would repel her, crush her with His reproaches : 
but she knew that she deserved this, and would, even in His 
bitterest words, recognize His compassion. But what does 
Jesus ? When He notices the contempt and disgust of 


456 


The Last Athenian. 


His rigid host for the strange woman, He elevates her 
remorse above the self-righteousness of the Pharisee. He 
says, “her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved 
much ; but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth 
little,” and declared that she was saved by her faith. 

Myro melted into tears. This single feature from the 
life of the Galilean, was sufficient to win her soul. She 
recognized herself in the sinner, and like her, would have 
thrown herself at the feet of her Divine master, had He 
stood before her, in visible form. 

This was not the only occasion on which she heard the 
Evangelist expounded in the same circle of friendly and 
happy people, by Theodorus. 

A little while, and the former courtesan, the priestess of 
Aphrodite Pandemos, had become a faithful member of the 
Christian congregation, and a modest servant in the house 
where she gained her first knowledge of the glad tidings. 

About this time Baruk, the rich broker, died — of sorrow 
for his daughter, it was said. 

How astonished was Athens, when it learned that Baruk 
had bequeathed a considerable sum of money to the well- 
known courtesan ! The greater portion of his wealth, he 
had given to the temple at Jerusalem, the remainder to his 
poor brothers in the faith, at Athens. 

It was Rabbi Jonas, who brought Myro news of the 
legacy. She received the money, but handed it over to 
Theodorus, to be used in deeds of charity, first taking care 
that a simple memorial was erected upon the grave of 
Rachel and her son. The memorial was an urn without 
inscription, for there was no on<5 except' Myro, that would 
acknowledge those who slept beneath. 


The Last Athenian. 


457 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE WEDDING. 

The preparations for the marriage of Charmides and 
Hermione, were nearly completed. Two dawns more, and 
the lovers would be united. 

Of late, however, Hermione had not felt entirely happy. 
A change had suddenly come over Charmides. He was 
now gloomy and reticent. He appeared absent-minded 
and cold, in her society. How was she to interpret this ? 
She besought his confidence ; but he denied it. He assured 
her that it was bliss that scattered his thoughts. Yet 
even while he was assuring her, his whole being bore wit- 
ness that he lied; and in his eye lay a crouching fear, as if 
the furies were shaking their serpent scourge over his 
head. 

Hermione saw her father contending with weighty cares. 
This also depressed her. Latterly, she, herself, could not 
help observing the hatred with which the Athenians, 
heathen as well as Christian, regarded Chrysanteus. Even 
those who had hitherto supported him, had now, with few 
exceptions, fallen away. The gymnasia stood empty, and 
the youth, weary of the hard censor, gathered as before, 
about the degenerate disciples of Epicurus. The charitable 
institutions, now benefitted only their officers, at whose 
salaries the people grumbled, and whom the sick and poor 
feared, on account of evil, and perhaps true, reports. 
There was scarcely one among the principal families of the 
city, which did not feel justified in complaining of Chry- 
santeus, because some of their members had been struck 
down by the rigor with which he exercised his censorship. 
He had removed immoral priests, and accused and con- 
victed corrupt officers cn masse. But the vacant places 


458 


The Last Athenian. 


found few or no applicants, since the discontented threat- 
ened all such with persecution. It was a common occur- 
rence for the priests thus deposed, to throw themselves 
into the arms of the Christian church. This continually 
made proselytes, not only among the lower classes, but 
also among the educated. Chrysanteus’ zeal seemed to 
produce results directly the opposite of those he wished. 
He was not blind to this. He began realty to doubt the 
possibility of winning any victory for the cause whose 
champion he was. 

To these anxieties, was added the sorrow which Clemens 
gave him. Peter’s public trial had now commenced, and 
every time he was led into court, a crowd of people followed, 
expressing their sympathy. Clemens had been summoned 
to testify about his foster-father. Instead of accusing him 
he had, with the cheers of the Christian by-standers, cast 
himself into the bishop’s arms, and solemnly thanked him 
for the influence he had exercised upon his fate ; and when 
Clemens found that the trial would undoubtedly end by the 
doom of death being pronounced upon Peter, he was filled 
with bitterness and abhorrence for his father, and gave vent 
to these feelings unchecked, before the people. He still lived 
in the grotto, on the pillar-field, and his repute for holiness 
increased every day. The Homoiousian women loved to 
call him u Saint Clemens,” as they spoke of “ Saint 
Simon.” 

This epithet flattered the young ascetic. He had con- 
quered, in the strife with his sensuous nature, and the fruit 
of victory was a physical condition in which he oftener 
associated with angels, and the holy Virgin, than with the 
realities of this world. 

Chrysanteus had made a visit to Eleusis, to see the new 
temple, building there. It was night, when journeying 
homeward, he approached Athens. One of those sudden, 
impetuous storms, which are peculiar to southern climes, 


The Last Athenian. 


459 


liad burst upon the traveller’s head. The rain fell in tor- 
rents, and the white glare of lightning illumined the 
country. 

But not far from the double gate, it ceased raining, and 
the driver, who had been walking by the side of his fright- 
ened horses, was able to take his place again, upon the car- 
riage. 

They were now in the neighborhood of the pillar-field. 
While Chrysanteus was thinking of his son, who passed 
the night in the open grotto, the driver pointed toward a 
faint light seen from the plain, and asked whence it was. 

Chrysanteus alighted, and told the servant to drive on. 
He wished to visit Clemens. The light came from his 
grotto. 

The young anchorite had probably been awakened during 
the storm, against which his wretched dwelling afforded a 
very insufficient shelter. 

Chrysanteus wished to see how it was with Clemens. 
Perhaps, also, in the night and solitude, after the madness 
of the elements had been appeased, he would be more will- 
ing to endure the sight of his father, and listen to his 
friendly words. 

With this hope, Chrysanteus passed over the well-known 
burial-place, and walked towards the light. 

He soon found himself close to the anchorite’s grotto. 

The lamp, placed close to a wall, which shielded it from 
the blast, lit up the shallow cave. Clemens was sitting on 
his bed of moss. He was not alone. Facing him, with 
back turned towards the entrance, there crouched upon the 
ground a hideous figure, in whom Chrysanteus, to his 
amazement, recognized Simon the pillar-saint. 

When the storm raged most violently, Simon had left his 
perch to visit his neighbor. They had talked long, and 
their conversation was still going on, when Chrysanteus 
stopped, without. Simon spoke in a loud and angry voice. 


460 


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u Once more, go hence ! ” said he to Clemens. “I know 
you, boy. You are son of the old serpent, and a serpent 
yourself, that I have cherished in my bosom. You have 
come here to steal from me, but take care, Philip, I have a 
sharp eye, and a sharp ear. The thief shall be brought to 
shame.” 

“ Father,” said Clemens, deeply moved, u I do not under- 
stand you. Why are you angry with me ? Is it because 
my heart is evil ? I pray every day for a new one, and 
heaven hears me, I think, for the angels and the mother of 
God have vouchsafed to appear unto me, and purify me 
with their companionship. Did not you, too, Simon, con- 
tend with sin, before you won the holiness which now 
shines about you ? Bear with my youth, father, and suffer 
me to remain near you, to be edified and strengthened by 
your counsel.” 

u Heaven, itself, has spoken,” exclaimed the saint. “It 
was my prayers that opened its mouth. The thunder 
roared in your ear, ‘ go hence ! ’ and the lightning threat- 
ened to strike you, if you continue to desecrate this place. 
What have you to do here ? ” 

“ I have told you, most reverend Simon. Be angry no 
longer ! ” 

“ Ah, I know well enough, your intention. You are sent 
here, by your accursed father, to compel me to die of 
hunger and thirst. Oh, I am terribly hungry,” wailed 
Simon ; “ the pious and generous have forgotten the old 
man, to gape at the young. Ho one appeases now my 
hunger. Ho one quenches my thirst. All go to you. 
Woe unto you, Philip ! ” 

“ Your accusation is unjust, father Simon. I content 
myself with a single loaf, and the water I drink, I myself 
fetch from the spring.” 

“ They call you the saint,” hissed Simon. “ Have you 
heard them call you the saint ? ” 


The Last Athenian. 461 

“ Yes,” answered Clemens, “ and with God’s help 1 will 
become worthy that name.” 

“ But I tell you : go hence ! Now, this minute, you shall 
go, never to •return. The night is dangerous, Philip. 
Heaven has not shot forth all its thunderbolts. Beware my 
curse — and my claws. With these hands I strangled Paul. 
They know how to clutch a throat. Look out for your own ! ” 

“Oh, my God, what do you say? You are talking 
wildly, Simon. Whom do you say you strangled ? ” 

“ Lama ragschu gojim — these were Paul’s last words. I 
shall never forget them* He sat in a room in the tower 
reading the Psalms of David, as was his wont, when I crept 
in and strangled him. That was an act pleasing to God ! 
and it stands written by the side of my name in the hook 
of life. Lama ragschu gojim. Did you know Paul ? No, 
no, you could not have known him. You were a child then. 
The heretical patriarch had fasted six days when the com- 
mand came that he should die. Macedonius wished it and 
the emperor wished it, too. Macedonius pledged me the 
bliss of heaven, and promised to educate my Peter to a 
great man, if I did it. 

“Iam now a saint, and my son a bishop. I did not hate 
Paul, hut I hate you, Philip, because you are an ungrateful, 
envious, treacherous son. I tell you once more, go hence, 
or beware my claws. Feel, how they can clutch.” 

He hopped forward to Clemens, stretched out his long 
bony arms, and his dark, fleshless fingers fastened suddenly 
about Clemens’ throat, so tightly, that he could not breathe. 

The youth made a powerful effort to free himself. But in 
vain. Simon’s fingers were like iron, — he did not loose his 
hold. His eyes, glittering with the fire of insanity, seemed 
to emit sparks. 

“ Boy,” hissed he — “ swear to go hence — for ever — or I 
murder you ! ” 

Seized by a deathly terror, Clemens woi^ld have taken 

29 


462 


The Last Athenian. 


the oath ; hut he could not. He felt himself about to be 
stifled. Fear gave him a momentary strength, — he raised 
himself from the moss bed on which he had been sitting. 
One hand seized the demon’s long matted beard ; the other 
instinctively sought his eyes. 

Simon gave a yell like the roar of a wounded beast. 
His hands loosened, — Clemens had gouged out one of his 
eyes. The next moment both the saints fell struggling to 
the ground. 

But Clemens’ strength was gone : Simon threw himself 
upon him, and again clutched his throat with his long tal- 
oned fingers. Clemens became unconscious. 

All this had taken but a few seconds. A moment more 
and Chrysanteus had hastened forward to help his son. 
With difficulty he succeeded in freeing him from the pillar- 
man. Simon uttered a mad cry, as he recognized his new 
antagonist. He raised himself upon his legs, distorted by 
long years of kneeling. Blood ran from his mangled eye, 
while the other seemed to spout fire. 

A fierce contest now commenced between the archon and 
the stylite, in which the latter exerted the whole force of 
an infuriated madman. The lamp was thrown down, and 
darkness enveloped their narrow battle-field. Chrysanteus 
succeeded in dragging his foe outside the cavern, and here 
his strength, developed by life-long gymnastic exercises, 
finally conquered. But the victory was not complete while 
Simon could move a limb. His point of attack was his 
opponent’s throat, and he had succeeded in fastening upon 
it, when Chrysanteus dashed the head of his hideous 
enemy against the city-wall. 

Simon fell, a bloody corpse, at his feet. 

Clemens had recovered his senses during this fight. 
Yfhen Chrysanteus, dripping with sweat, turned from the 
slain, he saw the youth’s white tunic fluttering in the wind. 

Pazed qnd <^uakin^, Cleiqens had witnessed the contest 


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468 


between two figures, ill-defined in the darkness, and seeming, 
to his imagination, of giant size and monstrous form. 

The wild laugh and the lama ragschu gojim, which fell 
from the murderous saint whenever he succeeded in clutch- 
ing his antagonist’s throat, convinced Clemens that one of 
the combatants was Simon, and reminded him, together with 
the pain in his neck, of the horrible scene in the grotto, and 
the mortal danger he had just escaped. Terror chilled his 
blood. Night prevented him from recognizing his deliverer, 
and when the struggle was ended, and one of the figures 
approached him, he knew not whether it were Simon or the 
other. His consciousness had cleared, but only for a 
moment, to be again shrouded in deeper darkness. He 
uttered a frightened cry, and staggered backwards as Chrys- 
anteus grasped his hand. 

“ Philip,” said Chrysanteus, “ it is I, your father. 
Pear not ! The wretch, who sought to murder you, has met 
his doom. Follow me ! ” 

He heard the command, recognized the voice, and obeyed. 
He allowed Chrysanteus to lead him by the hand across the 
field, and through Ceramicus, to the house on Tripod street. 
But the answers he gave to his father’s questions on the 
way, betrayed a disordered mind. 

Alas, this was not of a transitory nature. The events 
at the grotto had given the last blow to the youth’s totter- 
ing reason. Clemens was mad. 

Next day’s sun found Simon no more upon the pillar, 
whence he had so long greeted its rising. Old Bathyllus, 
walking early across the field, found him lying, with broken 
skull, and bloody face, beside- the city wall. 

The bear-skin, which had clothed the saint in life, was 
found in the grotto, where the young anchorite was wont 
to pass his time. XJpon Simon’s naked back was seen a 
long, deep scar, which no one troubled himself about. It 
was the mark of the hot iron, with which Peter, Ho- 
moiousian bishop, had awakened his father from the dead. 


464 


The Last Athenian. 


News of the fate of Simon, the pillar-saint, spread like 
wild-fire through the city. People exhausted themselves in 
surmises about his mysterious taking-off. It surprised all, 
that he was not found lying at the foot of his pillar ; it 
might then have been supposed that he had tumbled off and 
crushed his head in the fall. Now it was evident that he 
had left the pillar during the night, and succumbed to some 
enemy after a hard battle. The trampled sod around the 
grotto, clearly proved this. 

But all mystery was quickly dispelled. Chrysanteus has- 
tened to acquaint the authorities with the occurrence. The 
Christians learned that it was the arch-heathen, who had 
murdered their venerated saint. The circumstances justify- 
ing the act, they deemed made up for the occasion. They 
were filled with a madness which overcame their fear of the 
sword of government. When the Homoiousian priesthood 
took up the dead man, and in solemn procession, carried his 
bloody corpse through the streets to the cathedral, a fanat- 
ical throng pressed around the bier, and gave vent to their 
rage in wild threats against the archon. Athens bore the 
same features as during the days preceding the death of 
Constantius. In the afternoon they stormed the prison 
where Peter was kept ; the doors were burst open, and the 
prisoner, against his own express wish, carried by the mob 
to his house ; which, however, he immediately left, to deliver 
himself up into the hands of justice. 

The riot would have assumed a still more threatening 
aspect, had not Chrysanteus hastened to quell it by force. 
By virtue of the authority the emperor placed in his hands, 
he assumed command of the troops at Athens, and used 
them with unsparing severity. The legionaries attacked 
the tumultuous crowds with levelled lances, and scattered 
them. Blood was shed in many quarters of the city. 
Towards night, quiet was restored, and a multitude of 
Christians, who had been taken prisoners, were incarcerated 
to be tried on the morrow, as rioters. 


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465 


Under such deplorable circumstances, the day dawned 
on which Chrysanteus was to celebrate his daughter’s wed- 
ding. 

Charmides and Hermione had scrupulously observed the 
traditional customs and religious rites with which the legal 
union of two lovers had always been celebrated by their 
forefathers. They together had offered sacrifices to the 
divinities who were looked upon as the guardians of matri- 
mony, to all-father Zeus, to Hera, and to the maidenly 
iirtemis. Hermione had cut off her locks, and laid them 
upon the altar of the goddess of wisdom. These ceremo- 
nies were performed, as was customary, the day before the 
marriage. 

On the wedding eve, throngs of people crowded into 
Tripod street and the market place beneath the Acropolis, 
to gaze upon the bridal procession which was to pass from 
the house of Chrysanteus to that of the bridegroom, situated 
at the entrance of Pinean street. Both houses had been 
adorned, since morning, with garlands and bouquets, by the 
young friends of the bridal pair. 

At last, the procession appeared. First came a car- 
riage, drawn by white horses, in which rode the bride with 
the vufupayutybg or bride’s knight, a young unmarried 
friend of Charmides. The carriage was followed by a white 
clad throng, decked with flowers, bearing torches in their 
hands. Among the beautiful girls, Hermione’s friends, 
were seen Ismene and Berenice. The youths, who by 
couples escorted the maidens, were, for the most part, noble 
strangers and disciples of the Academy, or belonged to fam- 
ilies so allied to Chrysanteus or Charmides, that in spite of 
the general ill-will against the archon, they were compelled 
by custom to participate in the ceremonies. 

Hermione wore a robe of byssos and purple, and in 
accordance with an ancient custom, was veiled. The veil 


466 


The Last Athenian. 


hid her pale face, which otherwise would have betrayed dis- 
quietude, suffering, and gloomy forebodings. 

Musiciaus accompanied the procession, and the tones of 
the Lydian flute floated out in sparkling melodies. 

Very stately it all appeared by torch light, but it was 
by no means so joyous as scenes of this kind usually are. 

Youths and maidens did not jest with each other. From 
the numerous beholders came no cry of applause. They 
maintained a profound silence. No friends of the bridal 
pair pressed forward to congratulate them. No gaily-clad 
boys appeared, to scatter flowers before the carriage, or 
throw bouquets at the brides-maids. 

Before the last of the party had left Chrysanteus’ house, 
something occurred which struck all as an evil omen. 

Poor Clemens appeared at one of the windows. Accord- 
ing to the heathen custom, he had decked himself with 
garlands, in honor of the day. 

He spoke with a loud voice a few words, which the 
heathen by-standers regarded as a dark prophecy, and which 
the Christians recognized as the words of the holy apostle, 
John. 

“ In one hour, shalt thou be made desolate, and the light 
of a candle shall shine no more at all in thee, and the voice 
of the bridegroom and of the bride shall be heard no more 
at all in thee. Woe, woe unto thee ! ” 

The pale face vanished from the window as soon as these 
words were uttered. 

When the procession reached the house of the bride- 
groom, it was received by him and a few of his friends. 

Charmides, crowned, and robed in glittering purple, lifted 
his bride from the carriage, took her hand and led her over 
his threshold. Then the festivities commenced. 

They were kept up, as usual, till far into the night. At 
first the depression of the guests was very evident. The 
unhappy omen with which they had left the house of the 


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467 


bride, weighed upon their spirits ; and it was whispered 
round among the company, what the crazed youth had said. 
Charmides was the only person who seemed joyous. But 
the generous wines, drunk during the repast, at length 
awoke the butterflies of jest ; they stretched their wings 
and began fluttering over the garlanded party. Annaeus 
Domitius, who represented the bridegroom’s father, joyfully 
chimed in with the gayer tone that now prevailed. And 
when the wedding songs arose and music invited the young 
to dance and sport, the gloomy presage was forgotten, and 
pleasure beamed from every face which was not doomed, 
like the bride’s, to be hidden under a veil. 

Charmides sat beside Hermione, and, happy and enrap- 
tured, was whispering to her, when noisy strains of music 
arose from without, which soon resolved themselves into a 
double choir of good voices, youths’ and maidens’, who sang 
a wedding song, in honor of the young couple. 

They were Olympiodorus; Palladius, and many others of 
that glad company, who were wont to assemble in the 
gardens of Epicurus. In this way they took farewell of a 
friend, who exchanged the free domain of Eros for that of 
his more serious brother, Hymen. 

The verses were sung alternately by the choir of youths 
and girls, while both joined in the refrain with which each 
verse ended. 

“ Hymen, give gladness and joy ! Hymenaeus eja, Hy- 
menseus ! ” 

The maidens complained of the evening star, which they 
called the most cruel of the eternal fires, that, after Chaos, 
were lit in the vault of heaven. Eor it is the star of eve- 
ning which tears the blushing, trembling bride from her 
mother’s bosom and gives her to a bold, impetuous youth. 
Should a city taken by a remorseless enemy, be more 
lamented than she ? So sang the maids, but this did not 
prevent them, when their lament was over, from joining in 
the lively refrain : 


468 


The Last Athenian. 


“ Hymen, give gladness and joy ! Hymenaeus, eja, Hy- 
menaeus ! 77 

The choir of young men answered, “ A brighter torch 
than the evening star shines not for the mortals of earth, or 
the gods of Olympus. What the parents had determined, 
was ratified by her ; what the lovers had long desired, was 
accomplished by her and by none other — 77 

“ Hymen give gladness and joy ! Hymenaeus eja, Hy- 
menaeus ! 77 

“Sisters / 7 the maidens commenced again, “The evening 
star has torn a friend from our circle. When we, hereafter, 
in the Spring time, stroll in the woods and over the meadow 
to pluck the flagrant flowers, we shall miss her who was 
the loveliest among us all. She has been stolen away by a 
robber. Fruitless was all our vigilance. The evening star 
brought the night, and the night brought the lurking 
thief. What is a bridegroom other than a thief, though 
the name be different ! 77 

“ Brothers / 7 sang the manly choir in turn. “ How it 
pleases the maidens to deceive us with a feigned lament ! 
They secretly long for what they say they fear — 77 

“Hymen give gladness and joy ! Hymenaeus, eja, Hy- 
menaeus ! 77 

The maidens continued : “ Loved by all is the flower 
growing in the well-hedged garden, where it is threatened 
neither by the browsing lamb nor the tearing plough. 
The winds caress, the sun animates, and the rains nourish 
it. Boys and girls desire it. But plucked, it withers, and 
is desired by none. So it is with a girl . 77 

The youths answered, “ The vine that, unwedded, lives 
where it is born, on the wild field, never lifts itself 
towards heaven, never brings forth the wild grape. Sad, 
it bows itself to the earth. But let it be wedded to 
the lofty elm, and lovely, itself, it is loved by the culti- 
vator. So it is with a girl. Sing, therefore, with us . 77 


The Last Athenian. 469 

“ Hymen, give gladness and joy ! Hymenseus, eja, Hy- 
menaeus ! ” 

Both choirs now joined in the last verse, which ran thus : 

“ Long life to the happy bride and bridegroom ! May the 
divinity of youth bless you with beautiful children ! Cypris 
strengthen your true love, and Zeus grant you real weal ! 
Sleep, but forget not to awake on the morrow ! We come 
again with the morning star — ■” 

“ Hymen, give gladness and joy ! Hymenaeus, eja, Hy- 
menaeus ! ” 

When the song was ended, the tones of Lydian flutes 
again sounded, accompanied by lyres and citharas. 


Among the numerous listeners to the serenade were 
presbyter Euphemius and Rabbi Jonas. 

Each had an important errand to accomplish. Euphe- 
mius was sent by Peter and bore in his girdle a letter, 
which early next morning was to be handed to Chrysan- 
teus. 

The letter contained only a few lines. Peter congratu- 
lated Chrysanteus and the newly married couple, and gave 
his blessing to their union. This he did in the name of 
the Christian church, since Charmides had connected him- 
self with it indissolubly and forever, by accepting the rite 
of baptism. 

This amazing discovery was to inaugurate the coming 
day for Chrysanteus. 

Rabbi Jonas had another errand, which must be per- 
formed that very night. The Rabbi bore in the belt under 
his caftan, a carefully sharpened dagger, whose point, for 
greater certainty, had been poisoned. 

Ever since Baruk’s death, Rabbi Jonas had seldom 
appeared among his countrymen and fellow-believers. 
Neither had he entered the synagogue. It was said he 
was very sick, rent by some inward grief, and this report 


470 


The Last Athenian . 


was confirmed by his appearance. He had grown very 
thin of late, and his form was more shrunken than ever. 

He had passed the whole evening, after the arrival of the 
bridal procession, in front of Charmides’ house. 

During the serenade, he took a position very near the 
door. By his side stood a man with Jewish features, a rel- 
ative of his. 

This man was a jeweler; and during the last few days 
had often been sent for, by Charmides, who wished to select 
the ornaments with which, according to a custom among 
the wealthy, he would endow his young wife, the morning 
after the wedding. So the jeweler was acquainted with 
the interior of the house, and had moreover gained from 
Charmides’ young servant, Alexander, as complete a 
description of the whole locality as his friend and relative, 
the Rabbi, needed. 

On the left side of the hall, very near where they now 
stood, there was a stair-way, leading to a room in the 
second story. If the door to the chamber should be locked, 
it could be easily opened by a peculiarly bent hook, which 
the Rabbi bore in his girdle, and in whose use he had per- 
fected himself during the last few days, when he was 
neither able to study nor perform the duties of his office. 
From this chamber, which was generally empty, another 
door led on to a balcony running round the court, from 
which the whole story, with its various apartments, was 
accessible. 

The Rabbi knew full well the situation of the bridal 
chamber and its adjoining rooms. 

If he could succeed in getting whole-skinned out of the 
house, after accomplishing his mission, everything was in 
readiness for a hasty flight from Athens. 

He now awaited the proper moment for his undertaking. 
His features bore the impress of calm determination. When 
tiie serenade ended, and the greater portion of the inquisi- 


The Last Athenian. 


471 


tive people without the house had marched off after the 
musicians, the jeweler left him and followed the crowd. 
The Rabbi stood at his post, listening to the joyous hum 
of the wedding guests, and counting those who departed. 

When, at last, the hum grew low, and only the guests 
nearest related to the bridal pair remained, the Rabbi, with 
silent step, crept up the stair-way. 

He had rightly calculated his time. At the same 
moment, Hermione was conducted, by the light of torches, 
to a room on one side of the bridal chamber, where the last 
ceremonies were to be performed, before she was led by 
her friends to the bridal bed. 

According to the usual custom, Charmides had withdrawn 
at the same time, to a room on the other side of the bridal 
apartment, to offer up incense to Cypris, and await the con- 
clusion of the ceremonies and the bridesmaids’ departure. 

Ever since the visit to the morgue, Charmides had 
been haunted by the pallid forms of Rachel and her son. 
At night they appeared at his bed-side ; by day they never 
stood clearer before him than when in Hermione’s society. 
He suffered the torments of Orestes, hunted by theEuries, 
and if he still believed in a divinity, it was in him who 
sends the pangs of conscience. 

This evening, however, he had felt himself free from that 
anguish. The gods who favor love and marriage, had bar- 
red out the Furies from the wedding hall. Rachel’s form 
had not endured the bridal festivities, but vanished from his 
side. She would have returned, had he been told the 
unhappy omen with which the bride had left her father’s 
house. But the guests had concealed this. It was out of 
place and dangerous to mention an unlucky omen. They 
could whisper to each other that they had observed it, but 
nothing more ; and no one was found who forgot to add to 
himself the old formula for such occasions : “ the gods avert 
misfortune ! ” 


472 


The Last Athenian. 


Charmides had now but one wish : that the last guest 
should depart. He longed to be alone with his bride. He 
heard from the room on the other side the bridal chamber, 
the sportive jests of the } ; oung women, upon Hermione, as 
they washed her feet with water drawn from the holy fount, 
Callirrhoe. He remembered that he, too, had a pious duty 
to fulfil, and threw a few grains of incense into the chafing 
dish upon the tripod, praying, as he did thus, to Cypris, 
the goddess of love. 

The chamber, where he was, had two doors. One, which 
was now open, led to the bridal chamber, the other opened 
upon the balcony, just mentioned. 

Charmides’ attention was attracted for a moment, by a 
slight noise outside the latter. He thought it was caused 
by some one of the guests or house servants going across 
the balcony. 

The cause, however, was another. It was the Rabbi, 
who, after glancing through the close lattice-wo^k of the 
door, bolted it from without. 

Immediately afterwards the door between the same bal- 
cony and the bridal chamber, was opened, but so silently, 
that Charmides would not have observed it, had he not 
been looking in that direction. 

The chamber was dimly lighted by a single hanging 
lamp. By its light, Charmides suddenly saw a dark figure 
which, with noiseless step, crossed the floor directly towards 
him. 

Beside himself with amazement, he recognized him who 
was formerly betrothed to Rachel, and whom he had often 
seen at Baruk’s house. 

Jonas, however, was much changed, and seemed more 
like a ghostly apparition than a living being, as he 
approached with silent, resolute step, the lamp light falling 
upon his pale face, whose eyes, flaring from the depths of 
their sockets, were fastened relentlessly upon Charmides. 


The Last Athenian. 


473 


Before the latter could speak a word, the Rabbi was at 
his side, and had shut the door to the bridal chamber, 
behind him. 

“ Who are you ? — And what will you here ? ” 

With these words Charmides, turning pale, hastily broke 
the silence. 

“ Ask, who we are, and what we will here,” said the 
rabbi, in a suppressed voice, u Don’t you see, we are 
many ? ” 

“ I know you. You are Jonas, the rabbi. But what seek 
you here ? What causes you to come in such a way, and 
at this hour ? ” 

“ Talk not to me alone,” said Jonas. u You ought to 
see that I am accompanied by many.” 

“ You speak like a madman,” exclaimed Charmides. 
“ What will you ? I read evil in your eyes.” 

“ I saw your bridal bed,” said Jonas, “ it glitters beauti- 
fully with silver and ivory. But you shall never lie in it. 
It is made in vain. Alas, there are crimes that, when they 
come to be recompensed, make the Almighty -avenger a 
beggar God. All the forces of His wrath are as down, in 
comparison with the weight of a single wretch’s crime. 
He cannot carry out His own law, which commands an eye 
for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. 

Had you as many eyes as the vault of heaven, and I 
blinded them, and teeth as the Behemoth of the deep, and 
I broke them out, your torture would be as nothing to that 
you have caused us — me and her, and those who gave her 
life. If I tear you from your bride’s embrace, I cannot 
tear you from her heart. Ho, I come not for recompense, 
for no recompense is possible, but only to quench my tor- 
ments in your blood, after I have told you that to-night you 
shall kiss death and not Hermione.” 

Charmides, who had now come to his senses, and guessed 
the Rabbi’s intention, before he disclosed it, made a move- 


474 The Last Athenian . 

ment to throw himself upon the intruder and strike him to 
the floor. 

The Rabbi drew back, baring his dagger at the same 
moment. 

“ Its point is poisoned ! ” he cried. “ Only a scratch, and 
you will die in torture more horrible than that of the pos- 
sessed ! Wretched seducer, who robbed me of my soul’s 
choice ! miserable son of an accursed and unclean race, who 
dared violate a daughter of God’s chosen people, seek not 
the cup of death ; I will surely give it you. Would I 
could but give it drop by drop, and stand by and witness 
your anguish ! ” 

Charmides perfectly comprehended the danger of his sit- 
uation. While his enemy was speaking, he neared the 
door leading to the balcony. He hurriedly strove to open 
it, and save himself by flight. But the bolt resisted him. 
Escape in this quarter, was cut off. The other door was 
covered by the Rabbi, who now approached with lifted 
dagger. Incomparably superior to his antagonist in 
strength and agility, Charmides, who by no means lacked 
decision, would have endeavored to wrest it from his hand ; 
but the announcement that it was poisoned, had taken hold 
of his imagination, and kept him at a distance. 

At this moment the bridesmaids’ joyous voices were 
heard from the bridal chamber, as, after completing the cer- 
emonies, they carried their friend in pomp to the bridal bed, 
decked with flowers and fluttering with misty byssos. 

Jonas’ mouth drew out into a strange grin, which seemed 
to command Charmides to listen. 

The latter sought for some last means of salvation. To 
cry for help was of no avail, for the next moment was decis- 
ive. He hastily seized the massive tripod, wrought of 
silver and bro'nze, to use it as a shield against the first 
blow, and to strike with before a second could be given. 

The convulsive effort was in vain. The tripod’s vast 


The Last Athenian. 


475 


weight, more than one man’s burden, forbade the celerity 
now required. An instant more, and Jonas had thrust his 
dagger through the thin tunic, up to its hilt in Charmides 
breast. 

The poisoned tip had found and pierced his heart. 

Without a cry, he fell lifeless, and the floor was covered 
with his blood. 

In the bridal chamber, they heard the dull noise of his 
fall. The next moment the door was thrown open and the 
women, dumb with terror, saw a black-bearded caftan-clad 
figure, with horrid, blood-stained countenance, stride past 
them and vanish through the door to the balcony. 

Hermione was the first to recover her senses. She flew 
instinctively to the room the unknown had left, where her 
bridegroom should be awaiting her. 

But at the sight which met her there, she reeled back- 
ward and fell senseless into the arms of her friends. 

The shrieks of the women called Chrysanteus and the 
few remaining guests to the spot. 

As they gathered about the bloody corpse, another sere- 
nading party stopped outside the house. 

Again arose music and song with the old burthen: 

“Hymen, give gladness and joy! Hymenseus, eja, Hy- 
menseus ! ” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE DAY AFTER. 

The morning after the sad wedding day was destined to 
confirm a rumor, which long had floated from lip to lip. 

It had been whispered that the emperor was dead ; killed 
in a battle with the Persians. No one had yet dared to 


476 


The Last Athenian. 


proclaim it openly. That had been high treason. Still, 
scarcely any one could be found, whose ear it had not 
reached. 

The Christians believed the report, for they had long 
awaited such an end to Julian’s life. The heathen believed 
it not, for they had too much to fear, should it prove true. 

The rumor was also embellished with such wonderful 
additions, that it lost its trustworthy character. The Chris- 
tians pretended that a knight, clad in radiant armor, had 
suddenly appeared among the flying columns of the Per- 
sians, and that the heathen emperor, as he pursued the 
enemy, was pierced by a fiery dart from the unknown 
warrior’s hand. 

It was added, that after Julian’s death, the legions hailed 
as emperor of the Roman world a mere soldier of the body- 
guard, a zealous Christian, devoted to the orthodox Homoiou- 
sian confession. 

The horrible, mysterious catastrophe in which the wed- 
ding of Charmides and Hermione ended, had scarcely spread 
through the city and become the subject of conversation in 
the market, the streets, and other public resorts, before it 
was thrust aside by the arrival of another piece of news. 
A courier from Constantinople had reached the proconsul 
of Achaia,. with a despatch from the theatre of war : at the 
same time, a priestly letter-carrier, from the patriarch Mace- 
donius, reached the imprisoned Homoiousian Bishop. 

About an hour afterwards, Annaeus Domitius was seen 
on horseback, in front of the Athenian garrison, which had 
been drawn up on the market place. In the presence of an 
immense multitude of people, the soldiers hailed the name 
of the new emperor, Jovian. 

The- jubilee of the Christians drowned the cries of the 
garrison. The new emperor was Christian and Homoiou- 
sian, — no doubt about that ! ” 

They hastened directly from the market to Peter’s 


The Last Athenian. 


477 


prison, to free him. But when they arrived, the jail was 
already empty. The city authorities had anticipated the 
multitude and instantly restored to freedom a man who had 
suddenly regained his power and influence. 

The same authorities had thrown open the prison-doors 
for those who had been arrested for participating in the 
riot, occasioned' by the death of Simon stylites. 

The transports of the Christians were but little dimin- 
ished by the news, which arrived simultaneously with that 
of Julian’s death and the choice of a new emperor, that, in 
spite of the victories of Julian, Jovian had concluded an 
ignominious treaty with Persia, giving up, not only all the 
conquests which had been made, but also five provinces, 
long incorporated into the Roman empire, besides delivering 
to the barbarians the bulwark of the East, the important 
city of Nisibis, whose inhabitants prayed in vain on their 
knees, for permission to defend their walls. Because the 
emperor was a Christian, this peace was applauded as both 
wise and necessary. 

The same morning these momentous occurrences were 
proclaimed in the ancient city of Pallas Athene, a great 
public meeting was held of the confessors of the old 
religion, as well as Christians. The former concealed their 
grief at Julian’s death ; their pain was alleviated by the 
certainty that henceforth Chrysanteus’ influence was 
broken, and that now there was an opportunity of avenging 
the disgrace his inexorable rigor had caused so many. 
After it had been decided with what festivities the city 
should celebrate Jovian’s accession to the throne, one of 
Chrysanteus’ opponents arose and spoke against the elec- 
tion by which Chrysanteus held his office of first archon. 
The meeting declared the election illegal, and Chrysanteus 
removed from office. 

Chrysanteus was informed of this, while his cares were 
divided between his daughter, struck down by the heavy 

30 


478 


The Last Athenian. 


hand of fate, his crazed son, and the preparations for the 
funeral of his son-in-law. He received the news unmoved ; 
but when the messenger had departed, a tear fell upon his 
cheek, caused less, perhaps, by the ingratitude of the Athen- 
ians, than by the letter he held in his hand from Ammianus 
Marcellinus, confirming the death of Julian, and giving an 
account of his last moments. 

The young hero’s death was worthy his life. In a 
bloody contest, where the countless mounted hordes of the 
Persians, and their elephant lines, long withstood the reso- 
lute and disciplined attack of the Roman foot-soldiers, 
Julian, who fought in the thickest of the fray, had been 
wounded by a javelin, which pierced his vitals. After try- 
ing in vain to tear the deadly weapon from the wound, he 
fell powerless from his horse, and was borne by his body- 
guard out of the fight. 

Ammianus Marcellinus, igArfs letter to Chrysanteus, por- 
trayed, as an eye witness, the last hours of Julian, with the 
same touching and imposing colors in which he has painted 
them in his history. 

After Julian had been carried to his tent, and aroused 
from the swoon into which the loss of blood had thrown 
him, he ordered his horse and his weapons. It was the 
physician’s sorrowful duty to inform him that his wound 
was mortal, and that not many hours of life remained. He 
received this announcement calmly. The scene which fol- 
lowed brought to mind the last moments of Socrates. 
“ Friends, and brothers in arms,” said he to the philoso- 
phers and generals who surrounded his bed, “ Nature 
demands again its loan, and I give it back with the joy of 
a willing debtor. Philosophy has taught me, that the soul 
is not truly happy until this noblest portion of our being 
is freed from the bonds which confine her powers. Religion 
has taught me, that an earl}" death has often been the 
reward of piety; I receive as a favor from the gods, this 


The Last Athenian. 


479 


dispensation, which secures me against the danger of dis- 
honoring a character that has hitherto striven to he true to 
virtue and to manhood. I now return my thanks to the 
Supreme Being who has not decreed that I should perish 
by a tyrant’s cruelty, by the dagger of conspiracy, or the 
affliction of languishing health, but has vouchsafed to take 
me, in an honorable manner, from the midst of a brilliant 
career.” 

After Julian had thus spoken in a calm voice, he divided 
what little property he had with him, between his friends. 
Among them, he missed one from his bedside : the general 
Anatolius. On asking why he was not present to receive 
his farewell, he was told that Anatolius had fallen in battle. 
On hearing this, tears filled the eyes of the dying man ; 
but he quickly recovered himself, and mildly upbraided 
those around him, for giving way to immoderate grief at 
the departure of a prince who soon would be united with 
heaven. 

He then turned to the philosophers, Priscus and Maxi- 
mus, with whom he conversed upon the immortality of the 
soul till towards midnight, when he gave up the ghost. 
Thus an eye-witness described the death of Julian. 

Bishop Peter, however, who, some hours after his libera- 
tion, had made his appearance in the pulpit of the cathe- 
dral, to thank God for taking away the enemy of Christianity 
from the earth — Peter had already another account of the 
same event on hand. In the beginning he narrated to the 
faithful that Julian’s death had been revealed to him, 
Peter, the night before it occurred, and by the same angel 
whose fiery dart had hurled the apostate in the dust. 
When struck down, Julian put his hand to the wound and 
throwing his blood towards heaven, cried with sad anger: 
“ Galilean ! thou hast conquered ! ” Peter further declared 
that the apostate died amid the most horrible pangs of 
conscience, cursing the hour in which he renounced the 


480 


The Last Athenian. 


pure Homoiousian doctrine, and yet unable, with his faith- 
less soul, to receive salvation through Jesus Christ. His 
death, Peter asserted, was a new and overwhelming 
proof of the irrefutable truth, that no one can die happy 
except in the arms of the Christian church. In conclusion, 
he edified his congregation with the assurance, that the 
sentries posted outside the emperor’s tent had, with their 
own eyes, seen the devil fly away with J ulian’s soul in his 
hideous claws. 

The Bishop had another astonishing miracle to relate, 
accounts of which had been brought by imperial agents 
from Asia. An earthquake, followed by a whirlwind, with 
mighty lightnings, had thrown down the foundation of the 
new temple at Jerusalem, and balls of fire, rising again 
and again out of the earth, had driven aw r ay the Jews, 
wherever they stubbornly renewed their attempt to build. 

This, Peter solemnly asserted, and after him, Chrysosto- 
mus, Ambrosius, and other Christian writers, have asserted 
the same thing. 

The populace was by no means inclined to doubt Peter’s 
word. It was only the Jews of Athens, who dared to make 
a faint objection to the probability of his story, on the 
ground of other travellers’ testimony, who had no knowledge 
of any earthquake, but only that, on the news of Julian’s 
death, the Christians had arisen and prevented the Jews 
from continuing their work. 

The preparations for Charmides’ funeral were disturbed 
the same evening by Peter, who sent word to Chrysanteus, 
that, as his son-in-law was a member of the Christian 
church, he must be buried according to the Christian cus- 
tom. By the testimony of two priests, and by an extract 
from the list of those baptized, Peter had already confirmed 
the correctness of his statement in the presence of the pro- 
consul of Achaia. The bishop and his priests then 
marched to the house of the dead man, took possession of 


The Last Athenian. 


481 


the corpse, and followed by the multitude, carried it by 
torch light to the Christian grave yard, where it was com- 
mitted to the earth, during an address upon the Christian 
promise of the resurrection, and other ceremonies. 

The unexpected discovery that Charmides had been 
secretly baptized, and was a Christian, created the greatest 
amazement at Athens, and evil tongues hastened to place 
this circumstance in connection with his mysterious death 
on his wedding day. However improbable, it was yet 
whispered about, and generally believed among the Chris- 
tians, that Chrysanteus had instigated the murder of his 
son-in-law — that after it had been made known to him on 
the wedding day, that Charmides was a Christian, he, in 
order to dissolve the connection and punish treachery, had 
hired an assassin, admitted him into the house, and told 
him the right moment for committing the murder, without 
its being discovered by the wedding guests. 

The same evening masses of people streamed to the pro- 
consular palace, and demanded with loud cries that Chry- 
santeus should be arrested, as 'the murderer of Charmides, 
and Simon the pillar-saint. 

Poor Clemens, who had left his home during the day, was 
seen, with a crowd of priests, at the head of the mob which 
demanded his father’s death, and with a wild zeal taking 
part in their cries. 

While the Christian populace were thus manifesting their 
wishes, bishop Peter presented himself before the procon- 
sul of Achaia, and demanded that Chrysanteus should 
immediately be imprisoned, since he himself confessed the 
murder of the pious pillar-saint. 

Annseus Domitius found this request very reasonable, since 
he dared not withhold his consent. 

He determined, however, to defer the arrest until next 
day, that he might warn Chrysanteus and give him time 
to flee. A few of the archon’s remaining friends, who saw 


482 


The Last Athenian. 


in what imminent danger he was placed, sought also to 
caution him. But Theodorus, whose own life was threat- 
ened by the Homoiousian priesthood, arrived first at the 
house of mourning, and persuaded Chrysanteus to think 
of his safety. Theodorus intended that very night, to 
betake himself to his friends, the Donatists and Novatians, 
who, by Chrysanteus’ care, had been colonized in the 
mountainous district of Sunium. Theodorus exhorted 
Chrysanteus to follow him, with Hermione. They would 
then be in the neighborhood of Athens, and could return 
whenever a favorable opportunity offered, or flee over the 
sea to other climes, if the cliffs of Sunium were no longer 
able to afford them shelter. 

The flight was decided on, and Theodorus assisted 
actively in the preparations. The same night, Chrysanteus 
and Hermione, accompanied by Theodorus, and two trusty 
servants, left Athens. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

AT SUNIUM. 

Chrysanteus and Hermione passed the autumn and 
winter of the year of Julian’s death, in the mountain 
settlements of Sunium, among the Novatians and Donatists. 

They recognized Chrysanteus as their benefactor, to 
whose care they were indebted for their present earthly 
fortune, received him and his daughter with joy, and 
offered them a free city among their cliffs. 

Here they now lived, Chrysanteus and Hermione, in a 
cot which the colonists built for them, at the foot of a 
wooded hill by the sea, near a little harbor, where the fish- 
ing boats were moored. 


The Last Athenian. 


483 


In case of danger this was the most favorable spot for 
quickly avoiding it. Danger could, however, hardly ap- 
proach this unfrequented mountain tract, without being 
observed in time by the watchful shepherds, wandering 
with their flocks among the hills. These quondam robbers 
maintained, in their present undisturbed quiet and peaceful 
calling, that distrustful wariness against the world outside 
their mountain, which their former mode of life had ren- 
dered necessary, and which they still had reason for observ- 
ing, uncertain as they were, whether the peace granted them 
were lasting, or only an armistice. 

Soon after the news of Julian’s accession arrived, an 
appeasing edict of the new Christian emperor, giving an 
undiminished freedom of conscience and profession, had 
been proclaimed, reaching even the ears of the Novatians. 

This edict, however, afforded Chrysanteus no protection 
from the accusations brought against him, in Athens, for the 
murder of Charmides and Simon the saint. His only pro- 
tection was the secresy resting over his asylum, and faith- 
fully observed by all around him. Neither had it occurred 
to Peter to seek him in a district so near Athens. 

The only strange faces which showed themselves during 
this time among the hamlets of Sunium, were the imperial 
tax-gatherers, and these disappeared as soon as they had 
accomplished their official errand, that is to say, had 
extorted all the coin that, in exchange for the colonists’ 
cattle and grain, had found its way into this remote quar- 
ter. 

Had not communication with Athens and through Athens 
with the rest of the world, been kept up by Theodorus, who, 
after the proclamation of religious freedom, divided his 
time between his congregation at Athens and his friends in 
Sunium, these latter -would scarcely have been reached, in 
their unnoticed asylum, by even a rumor of the events that 
surged over the world around them, and set in motion the 
chisel of History. 


484 


The Last Athenian. 


Chrysanteus thus learned, through Theodoras, that J ovian 
suddenly died while on his retreat from Persia, and before 
reaching the capital, and that Valentinianus had been 
hailed emperor by the armies of the East, and recognized 
by the senate. 

Valentinianus, soon after his accession, had raised his 
brother, Valens, to equal authority with himself, and divided 
with him the Roman empire, so the latter became ruler 
over the Orient and Greece. 

A short time after Theodoras brought this news to Su- 
nium, he transferred his labors entirely to his Novatian 
brethren, and pitched his tent among them, as Athens had 
again become a dangerous place for him. Bishop Peter and 
the Homoiousian priesthood, began to conduct themselves 
with their old despotism and intolerance, and rumors were 
afloat that persecutions, favored by the remorseless Valens, 
himself a zealous Homoiousian, had broken out in many 
parts of the east, against dissenting Christian congrega- 
tions. 

Would persecution also reach these peaceful vales ? 
Their dwellers had reason to fear it. Of many different 
beliefs themselves, they had been compelled, in days of 
common necessity, to exercise mutual toleration, under the 
influence of which they at last found that the only thing 
essential was common to them all, that the end and aim of 
all was the realization of Christianity, in heart and deed, 
and that the first, and in truth the least result of the life 
of Christian love, is that we do not murder each other for 
difference of opinion in worthless metaphysics. 

In the midst of these rigid and earnest Christians, the 
champion of the old religion and culture, led, with his 
daughter, a life whose mild tranquility, unbroken by storm 
or suffering, worked like balm upon their souls. 

At that moment Chrysanteus’ only wish was to enjoy this 
blessed repose undisturbed, until the ocean, with whose 


The Last Athenian . 


485 


overwhelming power he had in vain contended, rolled its 
billows over his forgotten grave. He wished to forget, that 
the world, outside his mountain, was the scene of continued 
triumphs for the powers he loathed, and sought new objects 
for his untiring activity, in the narrow circle now open to 
him — in the occupations of the farmers, and in care for the 
well-being of the people who had given him a refuge. 

This quiet became still dearer to him on account of the 
influence he saw it exerted upon Hermione. Deeply 
stricken and almost crushed by her own and her father’s 
misfortunes, her soul had regained strength in nature’s 
bosom, in work for the necessities of life, and in intercourse 
with people, whose raw exterior could not conceal the enno- 
bled humanity their earnest strivings to live in God had 
fashioned within them. 

That this ennobling was not the fruit of the views and 
doctrines her father cherished, and she herself continued, 
though douhtingly, to embrace, caused her a sigh, perhaps, 
and prevented her from expressing to him her joy at the 
phenomenon ; but it made her happy, nevertheless, for she 
was compelled to place the good attained, above the means of 
attaining it. 

Through Hermione’s industry and love of beauty, their 
little farm-house soon wore the appearance of a home, where 
nothing bore witness of wealth, but all of taste and thrift. 
The cottage was shaded from the mid-day sun by spreading 
oaks, and separated from the cove by a garden, where the 
most beautiful flowers of the region displayed their charms, 
by the side of vegetables useful for the table. The walls 
of Chrysanteus’ house were covered with tapestry, woven by 
Hermione, and to the simple furniture, made by the colo- 
nists, were added books and the cithara which had been 
safely removed from Athens, by Theodorus, and brought to 
mind their former home. 

Theodorus had chosen his dwelling near Chrysanteus, in a 


486 


The Last Athenian . 


defile, from which there was a view over a pleasant flowering 
dale, where the houses of the colonists showed here and 
there among the foliage, and on whose slopes their many 
herds were grazing. 

It was a lovely spring evening. While a portion of the 
colonists were assembled to confer with Chrysanteus, Her- 
mione set out upon a walk, and on the way met Theodoras. 

Their conversation turned, as usual, upon religion. Theo- 
doras continued untiringly his work of conversion, and 
the more zealously, because it was making evident progress 
with the philosopher’s daughter. Hermione’s thoughts were 
more than ever directed towards the spiritual, since her 
earthly hopes had sunk in the grave. She felt the need of 
potent consolation, that would penetrate her innermost soul, 
but found it not in philosophy. She could not reflect upon 
the last year she passed in her native city, with its horrible 
occurrences, which tore her bridegroom from her bosom, 
restored her loved brother bereft of reason, cut down a hero, 
from whose might she expected the salvation of the world, 
and her father’s honor, and heaped upon that father’s head 
so many sorrows, blighted hopes and dangers, — she could 
not recall these events, without gloomy doubts arising as to 
the nature of that Power which rules the world and the 
fate of men ; and she felt, if the dark problems of life were 
to receive a solution which would satisfy the heart instead 
of crushing it, there was need of a firm faith in an all- 
loving Father in Heaven. 

With this conviction, the New Testament became to her a 
book, in comparison to which Plato and Porphyry stood as 
night to day ; and the reading of this Book made all the 
deeper impression upon her, as there were in her case no 
conceptions of Christ previously beaten in to disturb or 
diminish its force. What she needed, — an example in 
suffering, — she here found ; but she would not have found 
it, had Christ been to her God himself, who, conscious of 


The Last Athenian. 


487 


the infallibility of his mission, had accomplished the work 
of redemption with a little time of voluntarily assumed 
suffering. For her the great, overpowering and irresistibly 
touching portion of the Evangelists was to see this mortal, 
in being neither greater nor less than herself, for whom the 
book of the future was shut, for whom doubt might there- 
fore arise as to the fruits of his labors, for whom tests were 
real tests, and temptations, such as work upon a weak and 
restricted nature, real temptations, — to see this mere mortal 
come out conqueror from the strife between the highest 
requirements of the good and the instigations of the world, 
and reveal, in his purity, the image of God, thereby becom- 
ing the Example and Redeemer of the human race ; armed 
for this mission not with supernatural powefs, not with 
superhuman knowledge in Divine things, not with power 
over the hosts of Heaven, but with an unfaltering faith in a 
moral government of the world, and a good Father in 
Heaven, which every child, born of woman, should and can 
possess. 

Christ, the man, suffers everthing that society can heap 
upon us, — poverty with its contempt and care. He has not 
where to lay his head. Misunderstood, he goes through the 
world. His own mother and brethren comprehened him 
not. His disciples misinterpret him continually ; lack of 
success must give him disquiet and sadness ; hate persecutes 
him with railing ; the authorities and the educated of his 
people seek his life ; he is deceived even by the few who 
follow him. He beseeches in vain the friend, who rested on 
his bosom, to watch with him in Gethsemane; the strongest 
character among his disciples denies him, and another sells 
his life for thirty pieces of silver; — the people he would 
lead to God and freedom, cry out for his crucifixion and for 
the release of a malefactor ; he- is scourged, scoffed at, nailed 
to the cross, and dies in anguish. He suffers all this 
because, fighting against every temptation to live for his own 


488 


The Last Athenian. 


happiness, and at peace with an immoral world, he follows 
the same soul-exhortation, which speaks in our own hearts, 
but which we oftenest silence. And during these trials, he 
renounces neither his courage and power, nor his faith, his 
gentleness and love towards those who persecuted him. 

By contemplating the life of Jesus, Hermione learned 
how love may exist without a heart to answer or understand 
it, and how one can suffer in order that, through suffering, 
he ma} r become strengthened and perfected. 

She acknowledged to herself and to Theodorus, that it 
was the study of the New Testament which, more than 
anything else, had sustained her under the severe tests of 
later times. But to call herself by the Galilean’s name, or 
enter, as a member, the institution which named itself for 
Him, the very thought was loathsome to her ! The conver- 
sation she now carried on with Theodorus, as they walked 
through the valley embellished by the beauty of Spring 
and the industry of man, again turned to this point. In 
many things Theodorus did not agree with her ; he con- 
ceived Christ to be the Word incarnated in a mysterious, 
and to man, not fully comprehensible sense ; he believed in 
the gift of grace, connected with the sacrament ; but he 
admitted willingly that salvation was not confined to the 
acceptance of certain dogmas, that Jesus was not come to 
he the object of speculative musings, that his own words, 
from the sermon on the mount to his discourse to the 
disciples the night he was betrayed, bore no trace of meta- 
physical problems proposed or solved, but on the contrary, 
he rebuked the Pharisees and Sadducees, whenever they 
came to him with such queries. 

“ Be, then, a follower of Christ, apart from all dogmas,” 
was Theodorus’ council. 

On the other hand, he reproached her because, while the 
most natural forms of Christian worship repelled her, she 
still took part in the customs and ceremonies of the old 


The Last Athenian. 


489 


religion, though there was manifestly in these, something 
hostile to the worship of God in spirit and in truth. 
Hermione was compelled to admit that he was right ; but 
she excused herself on the ground of forbearance towards 
her father, to whom these were holy observances, wedded 
with those universal views that recognize reason, freedom, 
and human worth. But when she perceived that Chris- 
tianity not only recognizes these truths, but places them in 
clearer light, those reasons which were valid for Chrysan- 
teus, were of no avail to her. To conquer the feelings 
which induced such a forbearance, would be but a slight 
proof of that self-denial the founder of the Christian 
religion enjoins upon his disciples. If Hermione would 
acknowledge the Galilean as her master, not only with her 
mouth, but with heart and deed, she ought to acquire 
strength to burst the last bond which held her to the old 
religion. 

This demand of Theodorus caused her tears. She 
thought of the pain her compliance would cause her father. 

But from that moment she gained a clearer conception of 
her position, and felt sure that she no more belonged to the 
religion of Julian and Chrysanteus, that the myths she had 
loved to interpret, and whose beauty she had admired, were 
only veiled — and when they were unveiled — only pale 
images of the same, eternal truth, which Jesus so clearly 
and simply disclosed for the whole human race, and not for 
some few initiated ones ; she found that, in reality, she was 
a Christian, and she ought not, with her mouth, deny 
Him, whom in thought and act she wished to follow, as far 
as she was able. 

While this confession was upon her lips, the conversation 
was interrupted by a third person, who suddenly appeared 
close by. Hermione and Theodorus had seated themselves 
upon a bench at the foot of a hill, shaded by the fresh leaf- 
work of Spring. This prevented their seeing the man who 


490 


The Last Athenian. 


had accidentally overheard their conversation, and now 
deemed it best to appear. 

He was clad in a coarse cloak, travelling belt and spike- 
studded sandals, and carried a stout staff in his hand. 

It was Euphemius. His appearance caused Theodorus 
an unpleasant surprise, whereas he himself seemed very 
agreeably affected by the meeting. 

“ Brother, what brings you here ? ” Theodorus asked, 
hastily rising and going towards the presbyter to draw his 
attention from Hermione. 

Euphemius, however, did not appear to have either 
noticed or recognized her. He answered : 

“ I greet you, Theodorus ! You must wonder at finding 
me here, and I myself wonder no less, that in this labyrinth 
of mountain and valley I have been able at last to find the 
right way to my brother Theodorus.” 

“ And yet it is no miracle. The friendly shepherds I met 
on the hills, and the people I found in the cots have, with 
their advice and information, directed my steps, and through 
them I knew I was near your dwelling, when I lit upon 
you here.” 

“Well, follow me to my house, and let me there wash 
your feet and prepare a meal for you,” said Theodorus. “ It 
is, without doubt, an important errand that placed your 
travelling staff in your hand. We will talk about it after 
you have refreshed yourself under my roof.” 

Euphemius accepted Theodoras’ invitation, and followed 
him to his cottage. 

After the black-haired presbyter had partaken of the 
food set before him, with the keen appetite which wandering 
among the hills can give, and had asked a tiresome number 
of questions concerning Theodorus and his congregation, 
he at last came out with his errand. 

He had girded himself and taken his staff in his hand, 
to deliver to brother Theodorus a message, in the form of a 
letter from his father Peter. 


The Last Athenian. 


491 


Peter exhorted Theodorus, in paternal phrase, to return to 
Athens, because his stay among acknowledged heretics must 
cast a further shadow upon his already doubtful orthodoxy. 
Were it true, as Peter had heard, that Theodorus not only 
availed himself of the hospitality of the Novatian and 
Donatist apostates for his maintenance, but had also 
assumed the office of priest in the congregation, then the 
worst reports about him were confirmed, and he could with 
difficulty be saved from his self-imposed temporal and eter- 
nal destruction. Yet even in this case, the bishop would 
leave a way of escape open, with which intent he had now 
sent his son Euphemius to accompany Theodorus from Su- 
nium’s mountain to Athens. The bishop assured him that 
he should be received with fatherly tenderness, and that the 
past should be forgotten, if he would repent of his apostacy 
and show himself willing to abjure his errors. 

The letter contained, moreover, a bitter complaint against 
the Colony in Sunium. Its vicinity to Athens threatened 
the security of the city and neighborhood, since the Colonists 
were not only heretics, but acknowledged malefactors, rob- 
bers and rebels, well known ever since they had their haunt 
in Parnassus. The crimes against persons and property, 
which were on the increase in Attica, were attributed, by the 
inhabitants, certainly not without reason, to these strangers ; 
it was further to be deplored that they gave a free city to 
escaped criminals and slaves. This could not be endured 
much longer, and Peter prophecied that the worldly power 
would unite itself with the spiritual, to punish the criminal, 
and bring back the erring. 

The bishop concluded with a renewed and affecting 
exhortation to Theodorus, to return to Athens in company 
with brother Euphemius. 

“Well,” said Euphemius, as Theodorus laid the letter 
aside, “ what is your decision ? ” 

“ My brother, to-morrow you will return alone to Athens. 
I have no business there.” 


492 


The Last Athenian. 


“ 0, my brother, reflect before you thus decide,” groaned 
Euphemius. “ I assure you the bishop wishes your happi- 
ness. As deep as was his affliction at having lost you, so 
great will be his joy at seeing you, like the prodigal son, 
return to his arms. Be assured, that the fatted calf shall 
not be wanting. Peter always says that you were destined 
for something great, Theodoras ; that the rare gifts the 
Lord has lent you, rightly used, would make you a pillar in 
his congregation. If you follow me, Theodoras, your path 
will lead towards a noble future. What have I against 
you ? Euphemius, who has long been the eldest presbyter 
in the Athenian congregation, has no aspirations, neither 
has he any claim or desire to be anything else. He, who 
possesses talents such as yours, is bound and entitled to seek 
a field of labor worthy of them — where they may be fully 
employed. Brother, you are destined to be bishop, and, if 
you wish, will shortly be clad with that dignity. I say this 
not to puff up your pride ; I say it rather to humble you, 
for you have hitherto done everything to abuse your gifts 
and squander your fortune.” 

“ Let us leave this bootless subject,” said Theodoras. 
“ Here, in Sunium, I have a blessed field of labor, fully equal 
to my powers. But although I cannot personally follow 
you to Athens, my brother, you will nevertheless bear a 
letter from me to Peter. I must repel the charge that 
the eolonists make the country hereabout insecure. More 
peaceful and law-abiding people than they, you can nowhere 
find ; and before you leave us, you ought to convince your- 
self with your own eyes, that their dwellings are not 
robber dens, but homes for industrious, contented and 
virtuous families. That we receive fugitive slaves is true, 
and we do not intend to return them to their masters, as 
Paul did Onesimus. The slave, like the prisoner of war, may 
escape wherever he can ; with no rights against his master, 
he has no duties towards him ; but he has duties towards 


The Last Athenian. 


493 


himself and his kind, and the first of these is to escape 
from slavery. ‘ But if thou mayest be made free, use it 
rather/ says the same Paul.” 

“ 0, my God, what a doctrine you preach, brother Theodo- 
rus,” sighed Euphemius. “ Have you not reflected that even 
our holy church thankfully receives slaves bequeathed by 
the pious, and that she blessedly employs their labor to the 
increase of her earthly goods ? ” 

“ To me,” said Theodorus, “this is the worst possible proof 
of the righteousness of slavery. You forget, my brother, 
that I deny the church.” 

“ Alas, that is true,” said Euphemius, with a mournful 
look towards heaven. 

“ You seem,” continued Theodorus, “ not to know how 
these Donatists receive the glad tidings. They have, 
through suffering and persecution, been driven to conclusions 
in regard to the Christian religion, to which, perhaps, they 
would not otherwise have arrived. They declare both mon- 
archy and slavery to be Godless institutions.” 

“ And you, Theodorus, you approve of these awful errors ; 
you share them, since you are this people’s teacher.” 

“ They have disputed with me and convinced me. I 
could wish that Peter, also, were here, that he also might be 
convinced.” 

“ I know,” said Euphemius, “ that the African Donatists 
inscribed upon their banners the words, 1 equality and fra- 
ternity If such ideas should be scattered over the world, 
it would be turned upside down, and the church would 
lose her slaves. No, no, it is a devilish idea, that, and 
directly opposed to the Holy Writ, for Paul, as you 
observed, returned Onesimus to his master, Philemon. But 
how are such views compatible with that obedience to the 
laws you enjoin upon your sheep ? ” 

“ My sheep ? The sheep are not mine, I know only one 
shepherd, who is Christ, and I can make no pretensions to 
31 


494 


The Last Athenian. 


that name. We shall diffuse our opinions upon equality 
and fraternity by the same mild means which the apos- 
tles used for the diffusion of the other truths of the New 
Testament; — with the power of our convictions, which 
works upon the convictions of others. My brothers in 
Sunium have laid down the weapons of violence, since 
violence no longer compels them to defend themselves. 
But now, Euphemius, the evening is far spent, and you 
have need of rest. We will continue our conversation 
to-morrow, while you accompany me on a stroll among 
the hills, to see our thrift and prosperity. God grant 
that no enemy may come and rob us of them.” 

“ You are right, I am very tired of the toilsome way. 
Who was the woman, my brother, with whom I found 
you ? ” 

a The daughter of one of my neighbors.” 

a I did not see her face, but I heard a few words from 
her lips, and noticed that she spoke beautiful Hellenic. So 
there are educated Helens among these strangers from 
Africa and Asia ? ” 

“ There are people of every class and language, here,” 
answered Theodorus, as he showed his guest to a chamber. 

Theodorus passed a portion of the night in writing a 
letter to Peter. 

Early the next morning, while Euphemius still slept, 
his host repaired to Chrysanteus, to warn him and Hermi- 
one not to expose themselves unnecessarily to the eyes of 
the presbyter. 


The Last Athenian. 


495 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE WAR IN SUNIUM. 

“Julian was indeed a great general,” said Annaeus 
Domitius to his friend Olympiodorus, as they lay at table 
in a magnificent tent, pitched upon one of Sunium’s hills, 
in the middle of an extensive encampment, “ he was, with- 
out doubt, a general inferior neither to Alexander nor to 
Caesar, but for all that, there is one chapter in the art of 
war, he did not understand.” 

“ That is, to get whipped, keep a good countenance, and 
have a good appetite,” exclaimed Olympiodorus. 

“ You take the words out of my mouth,” said the pro- 
consul. “ I am compelled to silence your tongue with a 
cup of the best Falernian. — Your health, my trusty friend, 
my warriors’ Tyrtaeus, and my own Homer ! It was not 
that chapter, however, of which I would speak, although 
even that has its weight and should be learned to a dot 
by a true general. I meant that portion of the art of 
war which treats of enlivening the hardships of a cam- 
paign by a good table. My friend, how do you like the 
sturgeon ? is it not excellent ? ” 

“ Divine, bj' Zeus ! and the sauce, considered as a work 
of art, more glorious than the temple of the Ephesian 
Artemis.” 

“ That is an old Egyptian custom, Olympiodorus, to call 
a sturgeon divine. Such customs you should have con- 
quered, since the Egyptians, themselves, have conquered 
them, and become the most pious Christians in the world. 
I do not like, either, your habit of swearing by the old 
1 Zeus.’ Let the old fellow rest in peace — he must, at all 
events have deserted us, and moved to the Hyperboreans. 
Your heathenish oaths wound my ear, Olympiodorus. 


496 


The Last Athenian . 


You forget that I am not only a catechumen, but baptized 
and initiated into all the mysteries of my religion. My 
pious, noble Eusebia, who conquered my last doubt, and 
led me unreservedly into the arms of truth ! I cannot 
sufficiently praise the Fates and Hymen — that is to say, 
not sufficiently curse the Fates and Hymen, but praise Provi- 
dence and all good saints, who sent me such a wife. Now 
my friend,” continued he, as a slave entered with a roast 
fowl upon a silver dish ; 11 now a bit of fowl, and one more 
cup of Falernian, and then a most simple dessert — my best 
pastry cook has sickened under the toils of the campaign 
— after this, you will accompany me, as I inspect the out- 
posts. My historian should never leave my side. Olympio- 
dorus, I hope that you have taken with you enough 
papyrus to describe my exploits fully.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Olympiodorus, “ praise the gods — or, 
if you prefer, your ragged Apostles and Saints, — that you 
have obtained such an incomparable historian as the 
Athenian Olympiodorus. Look,” continued the quondam 
epigramist, now historian, taking from his belt some leaves 
of papyrus rolled together, “ while you are eating your fowl 
— which, between us, is rather tough, — and awaiting dessert, 
I will read you the last chapter, — that describing the war- 
like events of the last two days. It is a dish, my friend, 
which can only be compared with the ambrosia of the gods. 
Enjoy it now to your uttermost.” 

“ No, no ! not now, my friend. What you have written 
is, of course, only an outline. Scepe vertere stylum , is the 
maxim among us Romans. I mean that you have not 
yet been able to polish and adorn your opus.” 

“ Bah ! to such a menial occupation Olympiodorus never 
descends. His works are perfect from birth, and do not 
need the wash-tub. The colors of Curtius, when he 
describes Alexander’s campaign against the Persians, are 
pale to those with which I describe the campaign of Annaeus 


The Last Athenian. 


497 


against Sunium. The historians of antiquity preferred the 
chisel to the pencil. It is only we who understand how to 
give history the brilliancy of all the colors of heaven and 
earth. You should hear how I describe the march of your 
columns, how they climb the mountains, their weapons 
reflecting the rays of the sun, how they dive into the shades 
of the valley, dividing, to burst through the mountain 
passes, and then uniting in an awful line of battle. You 
must also hear and admire my description of the last night 
— that was a glorious night, my friend.” 

“ Yes, a very pretty sight,” said Annaeus. 

“ Ah, when one has not Nero’s luck — to burn up a 
Rome, to see the flames of the eternal city against the 
night heaven, then villages and plantations are by no 
means to be despised,” remarked Olympiodorus. “ It was 
an edifying spectacle, — the funeral piles flaming on the hill- 
tops, and in the depths of the valleys. I have described 
this in my most brilliant style, in the history of your 
achievements.” 

“ Write also, as a faithful historian, that the honor of 
these flames does not belong to me, but to bishop Peter,” 
said Annaeus. “It was my wish to leave the villages and 
plantations of this uproarious pack in peace, for a desert 
yields no tax to the emperor. But I bow to the divine 
justice to which all human calculations should give way. 
The rebels are heretics, and Peter knows that the rights 
of the Lord are before those of Caesar.” 

“ I promise to write this,” said Olympiodorus, as he 
thrust the roll of papyrus in his girdle, and began to inves- 
tigate the dessert. 

“ But a much prettier spectacle it was on the following 
morning, when the first rays of the sun showed us the 
rebel line of battle stretched along the declivity of the 
mountain, and upon the heights behind the dark columns 
of the men, their women and children in terrified groups. 


498 


The Last Athenian . 


I have estimated the rebels under arms at five centuries — 
five hundred men — ” 

“ What do you say ? ” exclaimed the proconsul. “ Five 
hundred men ? What kind of a historian are you ? 
Write fifty thousand men, you fool ! There were, at least, 
fifty thousand. Remember that Alexander never conquered 
less than a hundred thousand of the enemy, in any battle. 
I am modest and content myself with fifty thousand.” 

“ I will write ten * thousand,” said Olympiodorus. 
“ Remember that the goddess of history exacts the most 
rigid truth. You certainly do not wish me to spin out a 
boundless tissue of lies.” 

“No, no, strict truth, my friend ! Write ten thousand ! 
That will be enough, for my own force does not number 
more than four thousand men.” 

“ The strife which now commenced,” continued Olympi- 
odorus, “ is described as only an eye witness can describe 
it—” 

“ Not forgetting the stubborn resistance of the enemy — ” 

“ Of course not.” 

“ Still less, his wild flight after complete defeat, the 
battle ground strewn with corpses and weapons and so 
forth,” said Annaeus Domitius smiling, as he filled up 
Olympiodorus’ cup. 

“ My friend,” answered the quondam epigramist 
seriously, “ one must not use up, in a single chapter, all the 
resources a campaign offers of horrible and picturesque 
events. I intend to leave this wild flight for another 
chapter, after it has actually taken place. I allow the 
rebels to retreat this time in good order. My love of truth 
will not permit more, for in reality, it was your troops 
which — Enough, you understand me.” 

“ That accursed priest,” muttered Annaeus Domitius. 
“ It was Peter, who, by mixing himself up in the plan of 
battle, caused the defeat. I should otherwise have annihil- 


The Last Athenian. 


499 


ated the rebels in spite of Chrysanteus’ ability, and their 
almost impregnable position.” 

“ But I paint another scene, in the most enchanting 
manner,” continued Olympiodorus, self-complacently. 
“ And glorious it was, in truth, to see the magnificent, iron- 
mailed cavalry, ride down into the morass and perish there, 
beneath the clubs, pikes, and stones of the rebels. The 
amphitheatre of Borne in its most brilliant days, never 
offered a more entertaining spectacle, you must admit, my 
proconsul.” 

“ It is true,” said Annteus, his eye glistening at the recol- 
lection of the bloody contest ; “ I myself came very near 
clapping my hands and shouting bene, optime! I would 
have done it, perhaps, had I been, like you, an uninterested 
spectator. But alas ! I am the Emperor’s general, and it 
was the Emperor’s soldiers who fell. There, again, it was 
Peter who ordered this unfortunate movement. I thank 
heaven, nevertheless, that it took place ; for when the bishop 
saw the mournful result, he begged my pardon, and confessed 
himself hit by a line I smilingly quoted from Homer : 

1 111 fares the state 

When many masters rule; let one be Lord.’* 

I hope that henceforward I shall be permitted to have the 
sole command.” 

“ That was a most surprising discovery, my Annaeus, that 
the leader of the rebels was no more nor less than our old 
friend Chrysanteus. Chrysanteus, at the head of a mob of 
Christian fanatics ! By Zeus ! Fate plays queer pranks 
with men.” 

u Don’t forget, Olympiodorus, to note down in your work 
that Chrysanteus was Julian’s teacher in both philosophy 
and fighting. You can add that Julian acknowledged him 
as his master in the latter, as well as the former, science. 

* Derby’s trnnslation. 


500 


The Last, Athenian. 


Posterity should not undervalue my victories when they are 
won over such a man, who, moreover, commands a superior 
force of fanatical and warlike men, and who defend them- 
selves in a mountain tract more difficult to take than a 
fortress. But now for something else. I expect this even- 
ing my hath slaves with a bathing tent ” 

“ Capital, my friend.” 

“ After we have returned from the outposts everything 
ought to be in readiness for a renewed acquaintance with a 
tolerable hath. 0, Corinth, how I miss you and your luxu- 
rious thermce. Pity it is, that they cannot he taken upon 
a campaign. — One toast more ! The memory of Char- 
mides ! ” 

u Charmides ! He grew steady and tiresome in his last 
days. But no matter — death reconciles everything, espe- 
cially such a death. — May his thin shade live in all time ! ” 
“ Let us also drink to his beautiful widow ! ” 

11 1 will take it upon myself to comfort her,” said Olympio- 
dorus, “ as soon as she falls into our hands. All depends 
upon your victory, my noble general. So then, one and the 
same toast, for Charmides’ shade, his widow, and your 
victory, which will he the prelude of my own ! ” 

“ Alas, my friend, it will he of little avail to comfort the 
dejected widow. Her golden graces are destined to be won 

by another ” 

u What do you say ! ” 

“ Her coined graces, as well as the uncoined, which lie 
in houses and lands, have found a more potent lover, 

worthier to enjoy them than you ” 

“ Proconsul, don’t speak in riddles, I am Davus and not 
CEdipus to day. What do you mean ? Who is this 
lover ? ” 

“ The Church.” 

“ I don’t understand your accursed Christian gibberish. 
Who is the church ? Curse him, whoever he is ! ” 


The Last Athenian. 501 

“ Unhappy heathen, yon have then no idea of the 
highest and most remarkable thing upon earth ! ” 

“ You mean, then, Olympus or Atlas ” 

“ No, no, I mean the church. But to make clear to you 
what is meant by the church, it is necessary that I should 
engage in a theological dissertation, touching the mys- 
teries of our religion. I am not permitted to do this, my 
friend. You cannot therefore know who the church is. It 
is enough for you, that it, and not Hermione, will be the 
heir of Chrysanteus.” 

The conversation was interrupted by a centurion, who 
appeared at the door of the tent, received an order from his 
commander and departed. 

Annseus Domitius then continued in a half whisper . 

u T see, my Olympiodorus, your fruitless attempts to guess 
my riddle. I will interpret it. Chrysanteus has a son — ” 

“ 1 know — the crazy saint — ” 

“ Silence, no blasphemy ! Saints are never crazy. It is 
enough to say the saint , if you wish, as a good rhetorician, 
to avoid a pleonasm. Well, it is the son and not the daugh- 
ter, who will inherit — ” 

“That depends upon Chrysanteus’ testamentary dispo- 
sitions,” exclaimed the legal Olympiodorus. If he wishes to 
grant his daughter a considerable portion of his property, 
he is free to do so. Moreover Hermione, if she marries, will 
be heir to her brother, the saint, who will probably remain 
single, and with equal probability, soon exchange the 
earthly for the Christian Elysium.” 

“ Correct,” remarked the pro-consul, “ but on the other 
hand you forget that Chrysanteus has another heir, whose 
right is superior to all others — ” 

" And this heir is ? — ” 

“ The State, my friend, which has the right to confiscate 
the property of traitors, and would already have seized 
upon that of Chrysanteus had not — ” 


502 


The Last Athenian. 


u Ah ! you are right. I forgot the State and high 
treason — ” 

“ Had not/’ continued the proconsul, “ an heir with still 
holier claims induced the State to let hers rest — ” 

“ And who is this heir? The case is now swarming 
with heirs.” 

“ The church, Olympiodorus.” 
u Here we have the accursed church again ! ” 

“ Be calm. We leave the church aside, and speak 
instead, of her guardian and director in this affair, who is 
Peter—” 

“ The bishop ? ” 

u Bishop and general. The same — ” 

“ Ah ! then I bid farewell to every hope.” 

“ Peter has exhibited to the patriarch Eudoxus, the suc- 
cessor of Macedonius, a little transaction by which Clemens 
renounces to the holy church the property he inherits from 
his father, intrusting to Peter the charge of administrating 
the same. Eudoxus, who, without doubt, has been promised 
a share of the spoil, has given the emperor, our most 
gracious master, a wink to shut up the eye which looks out 
for the State, and see the matter solely with the other, 
which looks out for the church. Enough, the church — or 
more correctly, Peter — will be the heir of Chrysanteus.” 

* Ah, the canny scoundrel ! ” muttered Olympiodorus. 
“ It is indeed a mournful thought that a noble Athenian’s 
inherited estate — and such an estate — should pass into the 
hands of an unphilosohpical and plebeian lubber of a 
bishop. We live in the most desperate times. Deucalion’s 
flood is again rising. Let it come, but not till Olympiodo- 
rus has become dust and ashes ! ” 

The two friends left the table. The hour Annaeus 
Domitius devoted to his rest and recreation, had flown. He 
donned his helmet and harness, fitted his sword about him 
and quitted the tent. 


The Last Athenian. 


503 


Soon afterward he was seen surrounded by tribunes 
and centurions, and accompanied by bis faithful historian, 
riding to inspect the outposts and reconnoitre the enemy’s 
position. 

Bishop Peter also followed him. 

That evening considerable reinforcements arrived. Al- 
though the proconsul’s force was many times greater than 
that of the heretics, these fresh troops were very welcome 
and necessary, for the confidence of the army seemed to 
have been seriously diminished by the recent battle, in 
which they suffered a complete defeat, from the wild 
bravery of the heretics ajid their leader’s sagacity. 

The proconsul did not return till towards evening. He 
then hurried to the bath-tent, which, in the mean time, had 
arrived with all its slaves and equipments ; then enjoyed 
an hour’s sleep, and at dawn was again on horseback, 
giving instructions to his subordinates. 

At the proconsul’s side was bishop Peter, riding upon a 
mule, and armed, even he, with a sword. 

Behind the bishop, and seated upon a courser of the same 
breed, rode the black-haired Euphemius, well enveloped in 
his cloak, for the morning was chilly and a cold mist lay 
on the hills. 

The troops were under arms. Their different divisions 
marched one after the other, by various routes, towards the 
heart of the mountains. 

Annaeus Domitius had determined that very day to renew 
the attack upon the rebels. 


The campaign against the Novatians and Donatists in 
Sunium, had not taken them by surprise. Putting little 
trust in the peace they enjoyed, they had preserved, as the 
last pledge of their freedom, those weapons which former 
persecutions had compelled them to take up, and in whose 


504 


The Last Athenian . 


use they had gained a frightful proficiency by a life of 
battles. The Homoiousian priest’s unexpected visit to 
Sunium seemed to the colonists the forerunner of a hard 
time ; the exterior of this messenger was certainly ill calcu- 
lated to inspire brilliant hopes of his errand. Their vague 
suspicions, very natural in their condition, were speedily 
confirmed by Theodoras, who, in certain expressions of 
brother Euphemius, as well as in the tone of Peter’s letter, 
detected the first rumblings of the approaching storm. 
Fear advanced to certainty, when, with every day, numbers 
of fugitives, not only from Attica, hut from Peloponnesus 
across the Saronic gulf, began to arrive at their mountain, 
begging an asylum, and recounting the horrid religious per- 
secutions again blazing up over the land. 

During these days, the peaceful vales trembled with an 
unrest which caused the plow and the pruning-hook to lie 
idle, and directed the eyes of the watchful shepherds to the 
north, where, behind the mountain chain of Hymettus, lay 
Athens. The dwellers in the cots took down and burnished 
their arms, the elders often assembled to hear the tales of the 
fugitives and take council with each other. To submit to the 
dominant church — the only price at which they could avert 
the danger — they regarded as a sin against the Holy Spirit. 
No one advanced such a proposition ; it would only have 
embittered the most zealous and pained all others. There 
was indeed no one who thought of such submission. 
They had only to choose between giving themselves up 
without resistance to the enemy, and with bound hands 
suffering martyrdom, or meeting the foe sword in hand, 
when, with a stubborn resistance, aided by the nature of the 
country, they might possibly wrest from their persecutors 
the right of being let alone, or fall fighting for a cause they 
deemed God’s, and not their own. 

The latter view prevailed. The colonists prepared for a 
desperate resistance. Warlike passions awoke in many a 


The Last Athenian. 


505 


tried breast, where they had long slumbered, and made the 
expected contest welcome. There were among the colonists 
hundreds of men, whose nature bore the stamp of a com- 
pulsory field-life — men, who had grown up among home- 
less hordes, armed against society, — had been nursed in 
contempt of the oppressing church, and whose recollections 
of childhood were of burnt villages and murdered kindred. 

Such men soon accustomed themselves to the thought, 
that their peaceful occupations must be abandoned, that the 
fruit of their industry would be lost, that the hope of a 
blessed future for themselves and their children was a 
mockery. And after they had given up this hope, the fray 
was their passion, and the sword a holy friend, that never 
should leave their side. 

The colonists were thus well prepared, when one morning 
the shepherds, who watched their flocks upon the hills, came 
running in from different directions to the inhabited valleys 
and announced that imperial legions, foot and horse, had 
appeared in the distance, and were approaching the moun- 
tains of Sunium. 

Chrysanteus had already been informed of the threaten- 
ing danger; and Theodoras, in behalf of an assembly of the 
people, had asked him whether he would share the fate of 
his friends, though their cause was not his, or leave their 
mountain, which no longer afforded a secure asylum. — 
In the latter case, two active fishermen had offered to take 
him and his daughter, in one of their small crafts, to the 
island of iEgina, or the nearest point of the Peloponnesian 
coast. 

In answer to this question, Chrysanteus, accompanied by 
Hermione, had appeared before the assembly, and declared 
that he would remain, since their cause was holy to him 
also, and in reality his own. 

The manner in which he then took part in the councils, 
confirmed his influence, and it became the unanimous wish 


506 


The Last Athenian. 


of the colonists that he should he their leader, and assume a 
command which otherwise might occasion division in their 
own ranks. 

Behind the first columns of the imperial army was seen 
a crowd of priests, in their robes of office, riding upon mules, 
and surrounding a carriage, loaded with an immense baptis- 
mal font, and other implements for church ceremonies. 

The army halted and pitched their tents before reaching 
the wild mountain district in whose defiles they sought their 
foe, and bishop Peter dispatched two of his priests with a 
letter to the colonists, promising them peace and pardon on 
two conditions, — that they should deliver up all criminals, 
run-away slaves, and other fugitives that did not belong to 
the colony at its settlement ; also, that they should publicly 
renounce their religious errors, and return into the arms of 
the orthodox church. 

The two priests, who bore this message, on reaching the 
first settled valley, found its inhabitants already on the 
march to the more inaccessible country beyond, carrying 
with them their effects. It was a long procession of armed 
men, women and children, herds and beasts of burden 
loaded with the simple treasures of deserted homes, and crops 
prematurely cut. 

Toward evening, the priests returned with the answer 
that the colonists rejected both conditions. 

It was their former brother, Theodoras, who, in behalf of 
the rebels, had given this answer. 

The messenger had seen no trace of Chrysanteus or his 
daughter, neither could they ascertain whether these persons 
were really among the rebels. Presbyter Euphemius, how- 
ever, clung to his declaration, that he had seen Hermione in 
his visit to the hills. 

That he had seen aright, was afterwards confirmed, in the 
first battle between the troops led by the proconsul, and the 
little heretic army. A knight, who on the rebel side issued 


The Last Athenian. 


507 


the commands, led the movements, and now and then took 
part in a hand to hand fray, was recognized as Chrysanteus. 

The result of this first battle we already know. The 
attack upon the position of the Novatians was repulsed with 
great loss, and Annaeus Domitius deemed it best to retreat 
and entrench himself until some expected reinforcements 
should arrive. 

Meanwhile he discovered, by his reconnoissance, that the 
victors had also left the battle-field the night after the fight, 
and taken up another position, further to the south, in the 
neighborhood of Sunium’s long-deserted mines. 

Here they occupied only a small territory, but the spot 
was protected in the rear by cliffs falling perpendicularly to 
the sea, and afforded pasturage for the cattle, and copious 
springs, from which the colonists might otherwise have been 
cut off. 

It was this last circumstance, chiefly, which induced 
Chrysanteus to select the position. His movement, however, 
resembled a retreat, and gave to Annaeus’ friend and chron- 
icler an opportunity to say in his History of the Campaign 
in Sunium : 

“ The rebels, who, in spite of their superior numbers, had 
lost the day, availed themselves of the darkness of night, to 
effect a hasty retreat.” 

The mists of night lay over the colonists’ camp. Here 
and there among the crags, watch-fires were lighted, around 
which men and women were gathered. Most of the women 
and tender children had been given a better shelter against 
the cold of night, in the ruins of a temple, sacred to Pallas 
Athene, and well known to sailors doubling Sunium’s cape, 
over whose precipitous cliffs its colonnades had glistened for 
centuries. Here Hermione passed the night. 

Most of the warriors around the watch fires were sleeping, 
after the toils of the day ; others sat together in whispering 
groups, and others cleaned their weapons, or were at work 
crushing grain between stones, for their morning’s bread. 


The Last Athenian. 


fO-3 

The silence was broken only by a psalm, sung with sup- 
pressed voice, by one of the men around the fire. Now and 
then an armed patrol marched by. Pickets were pushed 
forward to all accessible points, and the greatest vigilance 
was observed, that no surprise might take place. 

The military force of the colonists — young boys and grey- 
headed men included — did not amount to five hundred men. 
Not an inconsiderable number had purchased victory in 
the previous conflict, with their lives. It could not have 
been won more cheaply ; Chrysanteus’ arrangements gave 
evidence of a wise calculation to spare the lives of his own. 

Chrysanteus and Theodorus, together with those compos- 
ing the little army’s council of war, were assembled at 
head-quarters, — a log hut, built against the cliff. Near by 
was a flat rock, which formed a natural table, and was 
lighted by two torches. 

They had already prepared themselves for an attack the 
following day, and made all the dispositions necessary to 
meet it. 

The conversation now turned to another theme — their 
future. 

They could once more conquer the beseigers, — no one 
doubted that — but was not the result of the war already 
certain ? Was it possible for a handful of people to defend 
themselves long against an antagonist, who, if need be, 
could command all the resources of the Roman world ? 

The old Donatist priest, with whom Chrysanteus had 
once negotiated upon Parnassus, sat now before him at the 
table of rock, and the torch-light fell upon his harness. A 
heavy, spike-studded club rested against the table beside 
him — and that his arm was still mighty to wield it, the last 
battle had borne frightful witness. 

“ Where is our talk running to ? ” said he. 11 The 
future ? It is the Lord’s, not ours. To-morrow we shall 
fight against the Amalekites, and if we conquer them, we 


The Last Athenian. 


509 


shall fight again the day after against the uncircumcised — 
and fight on as long as there is a hand left to wield the 
sword. What more do we wish ? ” 

“You are right — what more do we wish?” said a man 
clad in full palatine armor, captured in the late strife, and 
whose eye gleamed with the fire of religious transport. 
“ No more is needed. If our time is come, we will die 
nobly, and not let our honor be brought to shame.” 

“ Remember, that after the men are slain, the women and 
children are helpless. The priests of Baal will baptize our 
women with force, and teach our children to sacrifice upon 
the hills. Our children and theirs will become like them, 
and gather about the altars of the devil. Our seed will 
not bear fruit unto the Lord, but become like the weeds 
sown by the enemy. David,” continued the Kovatian who 
spoke, turning to the old Donatist, “ what shall we do with 
our women and children ? Let us take counsel upon this ! ” 
u I know a way,” said the latter, with deep voice. “ For 
old men who still have strength to use a knife, and for 
boys who are old enough to bite, there is a place in our 
ranks, and they will fall among us, after we have gloriously 
fought before the eyes of the Lord. But the women will 
not be baptized, nor the tender babes offer upon the hills — 
no, no, at a wave of my hand and a word of my voice, they 
will cast themselves from the cliffs into the sea. I know 
my own.” 

“ God's will be done,” said the Novatian. 
u My friends,” said Theodorus, “ let us hear what Chry- 
santeus, who is our leader, and has linked his fate with 
ours, has to say.” 

“ Let us hear you, Athenian,” said old David. “ You, 
who yet tarry in the courts of the heathen, but bear the sign 
of the Lord upon your forehead, that you shall sometime 
enter into the sanctuary of the temple; you are bold as 
Judas Maccabeus, and wise as he. For this we would hear 
32 


510 The Last Athenian. 

you gladly, were you not our freely chosen chief. What 
think you ? ” 

Chrysanteus, who had listened in silence to the foregoing 
conversation, now said : 

“ The object of every war is to save the warrior. How- 
ever small our chance of deliverance may he, we ought to 
form a plan different from that of being finally annihilated 
by the sword of the enemy.” 

“You are right,” said the Novatian. “But I see no 
other result.” 

“We shall yet win victories, and crush many of the 
enemy, as one crushes vessels of clay ; but our fate is sealed, 
if the Lord does not save us by a miracle,” said the man 
in palatine armor. 

“ The position we have chosen,” continued Chrysanteus, 
“ is not the stronge-st the country affords ; I selected it 
because it gives assurance that we shall not perish for want 
of water, and because it offers for some time sufficient pas- 
turage for our cattle, by which we live. But resolute men, 
who do not value life too dearly, ought to be able to repel 
the attack of a less resolute, though far stronger enemy. 
If we are attacked to-morrow, and succeed in disastrously 
repulsing our opponent, I believe he will grant himself 
and us a few days of peace. It is not impossible for us to 
defend ourselves for two weeks, in the position we now 
hold.” 

“ And then,” said old David. 

“ During this time we can slaughter our cattle and get 
ready to leave this land.” 

“What say you? How can this be possible?” asked 
all around. 

“ The valleys and sheltered hill-sides are covered with 
trees. We have axes to fell them, and lumbermen, who 
ought to understand how to make rafts out of their trunks. 
These rafts can be provided with high sides, masts and 


The Last Athenian. 


511 


sails. In a word, they should he built for sailing across a 
stormy sea. The sails we can make of blankets and hides. 
There is nothing which invention, driven by necessity, 
cannot supply, and everything may be got ready within a 
fortnight, when we work with the hope of rescuing our 
women and children, and in our own salvation see the sal- 
vation of the cause for which we fight.” 

“ You are right. It is by no means impossible,” said 
the Novatian. “In a fortnight we can have enough of 
these craft ready to accommodate us all. We have ship- 
builders among us, who can direct the work. The fishing 
boats we have, were built by them. Your proposition is 
good. We ought to accept it.” 

“ It will at least serve to quiet the women,” said the old 
Donatist priest. “ Let us try. Whether it is successful or 
not, that is in the hand of the Lord. I accept what he 
gives. Glorious it would be to return to Africa. If we 
should ever make these rafts and get on board of them, I 
vote for Africa. It is my father-land ; its deserts are more 
impregnable than these hills ; let us hasten there, and find 
thousands of brothers, who fight and suffer for the true 
church. We will unite with them. Let us agree to 
this.” 

The council gave their assent to old David’s words. 

Chrysanteus continued : 

“ The nearest land to our coast is the island iEgina. The 
east wind, prevailing at this time of year, will waft us 
there, or to some point of the Peloponnesian coast. This 
also, enters into my plan. We ought to be able to gain 
possession of vessels there, more suitable than rafts for 
quickly sailing over the sea to Africa.” 

After further conversation, the council dissolved. Some 
went to rest, others to their appointed posts. 

Theodoras remained for a while with Chrysanteus. 

“If the Lord permit us to accomplish the plan you have 


512 


The Last Athenian. 


laid before us,” said the young priest, “ it will then he time 
for you to leave us and gojmur own way. You have impor- 
tant matters of your own to attend to. If we ever reach 
the African coast, you ought to journey to Italy, seek out 
the emperor Valentinianus and place your fate in his hands. 
Valens’ brother is a noble and just man. He will listen 
to you and give you justice, I am convinced. Through him 
it will be possible for you to obtain a fair and unprejudiced 
trial upon the accusations resting on your head ; you will 
be declared innocent, reinstated in your possessions, and 
receive freedom to return to Athens.” 

“ Your advice seems good to me, and if I live, I will, for 
Hermione’s sake, follow it. But if I should fall, there is a 
letter in this log-hut for the commander of the imperial 
troops, Annaeus Domitius, in which I remind him of the 
good-will he always showed towards me, entrust my unpro- 
tected daughter to his care, and beg him to carry out the 
decision I have arrived at concerning her future. She will 
go to Alexandria, the rival of Athens in scientific culture. 
There is there a society of celebrated men and educated 
women, among whom I have many friends. I am con- 
vinced that they will receive her with sympathy, and if 
the world has any solace for sorrow such as hers, the most 
elevated consolation will be offered her in this estimable 
circle. The sum of money which was at my disposal 
when I left Athens, and which at this moment comprises 
my whole fortune, is sufficient to insure Hermione an inde- 
pendency in accordance with her tastes and manner of life. 
I commit her to the keeping of Almighty Providence, for 
the plans of men are brittle as a dry reed, Theodorus, 
and it is the customary sport of fate to break them. I 
have learned much among you,” continued Chrysanteus, 
after a few moments’ silence. “ It is not unknown to me, 
that your doctrines, Theodorus, have made a deep impression 
upon Hermione.” 


The Last Athenian . 


513 


11 Do not fear that this has aroused my anger. 1 have lost 
my unhappy Philip. Pericles placed, with his own hand, 
the garland of death upon the last of his sons, when one 
after the other had been torn away by the plague. Like 
him, I have seen my last hope cut down, without murmuring 
at the will of Heaven. It behoves a man to hear his lot. 
And as for my daughter, she may follow you in the way you 
have marked out for her. I shall behold this without pain, 
for in this company I have found, that the difference 
between what is sacred to you and what is sacred to me 
extends only to the form and not to the spirit. Christianity, 
like philosophy, hears the eternal truth in its bosom ; and I 
have here seen the former accomplish what the latter cannot. 
I have seen criminals and wicked men changed, in a wonder- 
ful way, to moral beings. I have seen gloomy faces glow 
with joy, and the hardest with mildness, as they listened to 
the teachings of your Master. People, whom wretchedness 
and persecution had made robbers, to whom bloodshed was 
a pleasure, and tender feelings a disgrace, have I beheld in 
these huts playing like children with their babes, and treat- 
ing them with that reverent affection that only the con- 
sciousness of an immortal being’s infinite worth can inspire. 
I have found that there is a philosophy for the whole race 
of men ; and that the highest truths, the warmest love for 
the true and the good, can be implanted in the most igno- 
rant breast. But if this be Christianity, which I doubt not, 
she stands in the ranks of the oppressed by the side of those 
who fight for reason, freedom, and human worth. Therefore, 
I said to your assembly that your cause was my own. Let 
us fight and die together ! I will not conceal from you, my 
Theodoras, that I am weary of life. Our cause will find 
other and stronger champions, if not in these times, then 
when ages have rolled over our graves.” 

Chrysanteus bade Theodoras good night, and went to 
snatch a few hours’ sleep. 


514 


The Last Athenian. 


He was aroused before dawn by a message from the out- 
posts, that the imperial troops were in motion, and approach- 
ing the camp from different quarters. 

Ohrysanteus mounted his horse. In a few moments there 
sounded, through the mists of morning, the signals which 
summoned every man to take up arms, every century to its 
post. 

Towards morning, when the mists were scattered by the 
sea breeze, both armies stood within sight. 

The colonists’ front extended across a slope of consider- 
able strength, which here and there offered solitary groups 
of impregnable cliffs. 

Their left wing rested on the sea ; on the right, the 
ground sloped easily towards the narrow valley beyond 
which the imperial troops were deployed. 

On the right wing, the weakest point in the Novatian- 
Donatist position, the flower of their army was planted. 

Their line, formed by small columns with spaces between, 
ended on this side with their troop of horsemen, at most not 
more than forty strong. 

To lessen the weakness of their right flank, they had 
dragged hither a mass of felled trees, and in this barricade, 
which reached to the cliffs in the rear, had left only two 
masked openings, through which their little cavalry might 
sally. 

The weapons of the colonists were various. Some bore 
clubs, others lances, others bows, others short Roman daggers, 
others again the long broad-swords, used by the Alemanni 
and Goths. The cavalry was most uniformly armed. More 
than half were provided with helmet and harness. 

On the mountain behind the heretic line of battle, were 
seen their women and children in numerous groups. 

The imperial troops were drawn up in deep, close lines on 
a nearly level plateau, which stretched away on the other 
side of the valley. 


The Last Athenian . 


515 


When the fog was lifted by the east wind, and like yellow 
smoke rolled away over the Saronic gulf, the rays of the 
morning sun glittered upon a forest of lances, above which 
gilded eagles and fluttering flags were raised. 

The imperial cavalry, just arrived from a hard night 
march, were posted in deep masses behind the gaps in the 
infantry. The imperialist commander had now reconnoi- 
tered the insurgent position, and the trumpets sounded 
along the line, the cavalry began to move ; division after 
division vanished in the valley-approaches and appeared 
again upon the other side, till all the defiles were occupied, 
which, opposite the insurgents’ right wing, led to the valley. 

While the imperial troops were executing this movement, 
the insurgents sang their loved old war-psalms, with whose 
tones the elder amongst them, and especially the strife- 
loving Donatists, had so often in their stormy life conse- 
crated themselves to battle and death for their faith. 

The men in line of battle shouted, and their women joined 
in the song. 

’Twas Zion’s King that stopped the breath 
Of captains and their bands : 

The men of might slept fast in death, 

And never found their hands. 

At thy rebuke, O Jacob’s God, 

Both horse and chariot fell : 

Who knows the terror of thy rod! 

Thy vengeance, who can tell? 

The thunder of his sharp rebuke, 

Our haughty foe shall feel: 

For Jacob’s God hath not forsook, 

But dwells in Zion still. 

As the last tones of the psalm rang out, a horseman in 
priestly attire but wearing a sword, and followed by a cen- 
turion, descended into the valley. The centurion cried out 
that they wished to speak with the officer commanding the 
colonists. But instead of him there descended from the 
insurgents’ side another, well-armed and of warlike mien. 


516 


The Last Athenian . 


It was the same Novatian we saw participating in the colo- 
nists’ council of war. 

“ What do you wish ? ” cried the Novatian, halting at 
some distance. 

“ To negotiate/’ answered the priest, who was no other 
than bishop Peter. 

“ Well then, we have rightly divined your intention. 1 
am sent by our leader to hear what you have to say.” 

“We will speak with your leader himself, and not with a 
subaltern.” 

“ He will come when your cavalry have received orders 
to halt, and your own first officer presents himself, to meet 
him.” 

“ This is a lofty tone for a rebel chief, who, before sun- 
down, will be in my power. I will then speak to the people 
themselves, and they will hear my voice,” said Peter, start- 
ing up his steed. 

The Novatian seized the bridle, and compelled him to 
stop. 

“ What do you wish with us ? ” he asked. “ Ride no 
nearer ; it might be your death.” 

“ You would, then, dare to kill a mediator ? That would 
be worthy of you, you contemptible rioters. But your 
threat does not frighten me. I come in the name of the 
Lord and his sacred majesty, the emperor, to promise for- 
giveness and forgetfulness to all of you, who in this last 
hour will lay down your arms and return to your homes, 
there to live in peace and obedience to the authorities and 
shepherds that the emperor is pleased to set over you. From 
this grace and pardon are excluded only such as you, the 
instigators and leaders of the mob. Loose the reins, man, 
or you will deprive yourself of your rights as a negotiator 
and forfeit your life. We are two to one here.” 

The Novatian loosed the reins and said : 

“ The conference is at an end, then. We reject youi 
proposition. Return and tell this to your commander.” 


The Last Athenian. 


517 


“ It is not with you, we confer, neither is it you, who 
decides upon the answer. It is the infatuated people them- 
selves, who shall choose between death and the mercy 
which is open to them alone, and not to you.” 

During this conversation, the old Donatist had walked 
down the hill-side. As Peter spoke with a voice that was 
heard far and wide, David had perfectly understood the 
question in dispute, and while the Novatian was returning 
from the meeting, the old man raised his voice, and cried 
out : 

“ You false prophet ! If you strive to speak to the 
people and not to their chiefs, you are no negotiator, but an 
intriguer who should be cut down with the sword. But if 
you think you have to do with faint hearts, come on, and 
the people, themselves, will answer you that this day will be 
a day of wrath, a day of storm and tempest, a day of cloud 
and darkness, a day of the sackbut and the trumpet, upon 
which the Lord, with a handful of his remaining people, 
shall work great wonders against the Philistines. Come 
up on the mountain, and if you find a single one who says, 
let us yield this once, — or if you find a single one who takes 
the harlot’s cup, you call pardon, from your hands, may the 
Lord God punish me. Woe to the harlot and her servants, 
who call the vile, hideous tyrant, Yalens, a holy majesty. 
We spit upon this majesty, a filthy beast, whose judges are 
wolves at night, who let nothing remain until morning. 
Look there, at the homes you invite our people to return 
to,” continued the old white-beard, pointing, with his 
mighty club, to the curling cloud of smoke from the burn- 
ing dwellings and plantations, which arose behind the 
mountain to the north. “ Ye have compelled the peaceful 
Israel to give up the tents in which they were happy. 
Come up now, and see how the peaceful prepare to fight in 
the sight of God. I will lead you through lines of terrible 
warriors, and I tell you once again, if you find a single 


518 


The Last Athenian. 


man who falls down and worships the new Nebuchadnezzar, 
or the detestable Jezebel you call the church, may all his 
shame fall upon my head.” 

The old Donatist’s invitation, which was given in all 
seriousness, convinced Peter that negotiations, on the con- 
ditions he proposed, would amount to nothing. He returned 
with the centurion to the imperial host, which the next 
moment set itself in motion along the whole line. 

u Praised be the gods,” said Olympiodorus, who was in 
the proconsul’s retinue, “ that accursed priest has not suc- 
ceeded in stealing from me the enjoyment of a magnificent 
spectacle, and from you, my Annseus, the honor of a victory. 
The negotiations have ended with an exchange of Chris- 
tian abuse ; and in this contest, Peter seems to have suc- 
cumbed to that wordy old fellow with the Hercules club.” 

Annaeus Domitius, clad in a light and glittering armor, 
issued orders from his horse to tribunes and centurions, who 
hurried away with them to the different divisions of the 
army. 

The place he had chosen, permitted him to overlook his 
antagonist’s front and also his right wing, against which he 
proposed to hurl his iron-clad horsemen. 

Peter had returned to the side of Annaeus Domitius. 
The bishop’s eye gleamed with thirst for strife, and his 
whole being manifested an impatience and an imperious- 
ness, which he restrained with great difficulty. But it was 
the proconsul’s decision to command to-day alone. Peter 
knew this, and determined to hold his peace and be a 
soldier, since he could not be general. 

When the first line of the imperial infantry set itself in 
motion, to descend into the valley and attack the colonists’ 
front, which cavalry could not approach, a knight in a 
white mantle was seen on the insurgent’s side, coming 
from their right wing. The proconsul and bishop recog- 
nized him as Chrysanteus. He had, from an elevation by 


The Last Athenian. 519 

the side of the barricade, gained a view of the position of 
the enemy’s cavalry. * 

The next moment the little columns of the colonists 
advanced with the battle cry, “ The Sword of the Lord and 
of Gideon ” to the edge of the steep hill-side, to meet the 
I attack of the imperial foot soldiery. 

The legionaries encouraged each other with loud'cries, as, 
with shield on back, and sword in hand, they climbed the 
hill. But before reaching the top, they were attacked with 
wild fury by the colonists, shouting again, “ The sword of 
the Lord and of Gideon ,” and were driven back with great 
loss into the valley, before they could form their lines. 

They were ordered to renew the attack. They did so, 
but distrustfully, and were for the second time, driven back 
and followed partty down the hill, leaving behind a consid- 
erable number of killed and wounded, whose weapons were 
instantly seized by the victorious colonists. 

In the mean time, century after century, marching down 
from the plateau on which the imperial army was stationed, 
at last filled the valley with a closely packed mass of armed 
men, which by the very weight of its columns, was pressed 
up the corpse-strewn hill-side to a more determined and 
more formidable attack. 

Chrysanteus rode along the threatened line, and saw that 
the little defensive force was properly distributed over the 
strong and weak points. He did not need to incite his 
warriors’ courage. They were burning with warlike ardor. 
A number of the women had run forward to support their 
fighting husbands. The imposing column, which now 
approached, and whose last ranks had not descended into the 
valley, when the first reached the brow of the hill, was 
greeted, ere it came hand to hand, by a rain of arrows, darts 
and stones, which made sad havoc in the densely packed 
mass. The air resounded with the battle cries of the besieg- 
ers and besieged — the cry of “ God and the emperor ” with 


520 


The Last Athenian. 


which the legionaries stormed on, and that of u The sword 
of the Lord and of Gideon .” with which the colonists fired 
themselves for the hand-to-hand fray. 

It came soon along the whole line. The nature of the 
country did not allow the imperial soldiers to form in close 
column. The first who reached the brow of the hill, fell 
beneath the blows of sword and club, but the fallen were 
replaced every moment by others, who, whether they would 
or no, were pressed forward by the following multitude. 
The shock, thus delivered, was terrific, and would have 
seemed irresistible to one beholding the paltry numbers of 
the besieged. But the result of the strife was settled, if the 
stormers succeeded in getting the least foothold upon the 
level ground above the hill ; and the colonists, who saw this, 
fought for every inch as for their lives. No one gave 
ground, and the fight, which rocked upon the narrow hill 
crest, after the greatest exertions of the legionaries, showed 
only a single point where the line of the colonists was 
broken. 

The instant this break was made, a throng of the imperi- 
alists pressed through. The moment seemed to be decisive. 
The rebel general, too, was absent, for the battle was now 
raging on the right wing, also, about the barricade, and 
Ohrysanteus had hurried to that important point. But he 
had foreseen an event such as this, and stationed a little 
reserve column of about half a century, whose duty it was to 
reinforce the front wherever it seemed weakest or in danger 
of being broken through. 

This reserve, composed of real Donatists, men who had 
fought in the deserts of Africa and the defiles of Parnassus, 
was led by old David. 

The Donatist priest and his troop had awaited, with 
burning impatience, the moment when they might take part 
in the fray. 

“ Brothers,” David now cried, “ there they are, the 


The Last Athenian. 


521 


Amorites and Jebusites. Forward, forward, ye soldiers of 
the Lord ! We will slay them and pursue them to the great 
Zidon and the great plain, Mizpah, to the east, and destroy 
them so that not one shall remain. Follow me ! Ye 
chosen of Israel ! The sword of the Lord and of Gideon ! ” 

The little Donatist hand rushed against the advancing 
enemy with wild passion and the unchecked vehemence of 
fanaticism. Lances were torn from the legionaries’ hands, 
helmets cleft by the stroke of the broadsword, shields 
broken beneath the heavy spiked club. A few moments 
strife, and that portion of the regular force which had 
obtained a footing upon the plateau, lay slain beneath the 
feet of the Donatists, or had cast themselves in wild flight 
down the hill, leaving in the hands of the victors a stand- 
ard, upon which the young Christian cross shone between 
the letters of the old, venerated inscription, “ The Roman 
Senate and People.” 

From this victory, David and his men hastened to every 
point of the front needing a support. The old man’s 
terrible, blood-dripping club was seen swinging in the 
hottest of the fight, and his voice heard, as he unceasingly 
exhorted his men, and incited his and their warlike lust 
with words like these : 

u Slay them, slay them ! Cut them down with the edge 
of the sword, destroy them, as Moses has commanded the 
servants of the Lord ! Kill all who have breath, and spare 
not ! It is the day of the wrath of God, the day of tem- 
pest and storm, the day of the sackbut and trumpet. Slay 
them ! Kill them ! The sword of the Lord and of 
Gideon ! ” 

While the fight was thus raging on the front, Annieus 
Domitius rode to his left wing and gave orders to attack 
the rebel flank. 

Trumpets sounded along the defiles leading to the valley, 
and a large detachment of horse galloped in regular lines 
up the slope towards the rebel barricade. 


522 


The Last Athenian . 


The women and children upon the inaccessible heights 
in the rear, uttered a cry of terror and amazement, as this 
unexpected foe, which had been concealed in the defiles, 
suddenly appeared in the appalling form of a fierce cavalry 
attack, against which all opposition seemed powerless. 

This detachment had nothing except their field insignia 
— the gilded eagles — which recalled the Roman cavalry of 
the past. The bare-legged riders, armed with light har- 
ness, handsome helmets and short swords, were changed to 
figures enveloped from top to toe in a wonderful suit of 
mail. It was these “ iron pillars ” — so they were called — 
from which Rome, in the decline and barbarizing of warlike 
arts, expected her victories against the Persians, Goths, 
Alemanni and her own subjects. It was only during the 
short career of Julian, that the infantry regained its impor- 
tance, to lose it in other hands again and forever. 

With these iron pillars fought the middle ages. 

The storming waves of iron were broken, however, against 
the abatis, over which but few succeeded in spurring their 
horses, while others endeavored to press through the nar- 
row winding openings. The lines fell into disorder. 
Confusion arose. The solitary horsemen, who had come 
over the barricade, or were caught amid the tangled 
branches of its trees, were left without succor. Some of 
them succeeded in retreating to their comrades; others 
perished after a desperate struggle, in which their armor 
was a vain protection against their half-naked, but resolute 
ememies, by whom they were surrounded. 

Annaeus Domitius saw, with anger, the result of a move- 
ment from which he had expected a certain and important 
advantage. He had been persuaded to order this attack by 
the commander of cavalry, a boastful and arrogant Goth, 
who assured the proconsul that he, the Gothic tribune, at 
the head of such warriors, had taken fortifications much 
stronger than this. After the proconsul had given vent to 


The Last Athenian. 


523 


! his anger in a stream of heathen oaths — and this by the side 
of the orthodox Christain bishop — he ordered the signal to 
be blown for a retreat, which was effected in tolerably good 
order. The cavalry descended slowly into the defiles 
! whence they had come, and immediately after, the order was 
given to the exhausted infantry in the front to retreat and 
j take up their former position. The strife paused for a 
moment along the whole line. The retreating legionaries 
heard behind them the triumphant shouts of the Novatians 
and Donatists. After half an hour’s blood-bath they had 
not yielded a hand’s breadth of ground to their superior 
i enemy, and while their own loss was inconsiderable, the hill- 
side beneath them was covered with slain legionaries. 

The strife soon flamed up anew. The proconsul’s 
reserves, two centuries of palatines gathered from the scat- 
tered garrisons of the Achaian cities, were ordered to 
destroy the barricade, and open a breach for the cavalry. A 
portion of the remaining infantry was detached from their 
position in front of the enemy’s centre, to support the 
attack of the palatines. 

The remaining centuries were ordered to remain quiet, 
unless the rebels should uncover their front to assist their 
threatened flank. In this case the legions were to take 
advantage of the movement, and renew their attack upon 
the front with greater prospect of success. 

Chrysanteus had strictly commanded his men not to leave 
their posts without his express order, however necessary 
their help might seem to be at other points. 

David, however, found it hard to remain in the inactivity 
in which he was placed by the enemy’s retreat. What 
was in preparation upon the right wing, he knew not. He 
saw, however, that the tired legionaries in front, on the 
other side of the valley, had been weakened, and that, evi- 
dently, they did not expect any attack — for their lines were 
disordered, and many of the soldiers had thrown themselves 
upon the ground to rest. 


524 


The Last Athenian. 


David determined to take advantage of this. At the 
head of his reserve troop, he descended among the precip- 
itous cliffs, which, upon the colonists’ left flank, shut in the 
valley from the sea, and succeeded in crossing the valley 
unnoticed. 

He was followed by about fifty men, all determined and 
eager, as their leader. 

Taking advantage of the inequality of the ground to 
approach unobserved, the troops soon reached the legiona- 
ries’ right flank, and violently attacked the unsuspecting 
foe. 

Squads of legionaries put to the wildest flight, soon 
announced that the colonists had made an attack upon that 
side. 

Tribunes and centurions hastened to draw up their men 
and receive the enemy. Annaeus, himself, hastened to the 
spot, leaving his left wing where the fighting had now com- 
menced at the barricade, as the palatines made the prepared 
attempt to destroy it. 

He was both surprised and relieved when he perceived 
how few the assailants were. They had, in the meantime, 
marked their track with streams of blood. The proconsul 
commanded seven or eight centuries to surround them. 
Before this could be done, the battle-swords and clubs of 
the Donatists had piled up heaps of slain. They went for- 
ward in blind madness, breaking down all opposition which 
the unorganized masses they were driving before them 
sought to throw in their way. The battle cry “ The sword 
of the Lord and of Gideon,” rung out with a force which^ 
above the universal din, reached the Novatians’ front upon 
the other side of the valley, and gave them the first idea of 
what David and his little troop had undertaken. 

When the imperial infantry had executed the movement 
the proconsul had commanded, and advanced from every 
side in deep angular lines, to close in and crush the little 


The Last Athenian. 


525 


forcej the latter first perceived its dangerous position. On 
all sides a forest of lances, a wall of harness, was approach- 
ing. They must now break down one of those walls and 
cut their way back across the valley, or perish to the last 
man. 

“ We are surrounded,” rang in David’s ear. “We must 
cut our way through.” 

The old hero rested a moment on his club. His eye 
glanced over the hostile squadrons. 

“ There, my brothers, to that point, ye chosen champions,” 
he cried, and pointed to the troops who barred their retreat. 
u Forward against the Amalekites ! The Lord has given 
them into our hands. We will slay and follow them unto 
Asekah and Makkedah. Forward, soldiers of the Lord ! ” 

The Donatist band, still terrible in spite of their inferior 
numbers, followed their undaunted leader, to throw them- 
selves against the lances of the enemy, and if possible 
break their way through his columns. Their attempt was 
seconded by an attack in the imperialist rear, which their 
comrades, leaving their strong position on the other side of 
the valley, made to help them. A dreadful hand-to-hand 
fight ensued. In the thickest of it was David. A tall 
centurion, clad in mail from head to foot, advanced to match 
himself in a duel with this terrible champion. The centu- 
rion, like many leaders of the imperial soldiery, was a Gothic 
mercenary, and when he challenged David to combat, he 
followed the custom of his people. 

“ Old white beard,” cried he, “ whither are you raging? 
Lay down your club and surrender. You, who have no 
teeth to bite a soldier’s hard bread, can you have hands to 
wield a weapon ? ” 

“ Son of Magog,” answered David. “ You are like your 
brethren, as tall as Goliath, and as boastful and conceited 
as he. What have you and yours to brag about ? Your 
fathers came in a multitude, like the grasshoppers upon 
33 


526 


The Last Athenian. 


Egypt, to storm our land, and behold, they were slain and 
scattered like chaff by a handful of Romans. But that 
does not stop your accursed tongue from bragging. I will 
silence it. Death claims you to-day and forever.” 

David caught, on the handle of his club, the heavy blow 
the barbarian aimed at his head. The sword slid along 
across David’s left hand, cutting off the fingers. But the 
next instant the bloody club struck the Goth’s shoulder and 
crushed in the protecting armor. 

The centurion’s arm was lamed by the blow. David also, 
after his wound, felt himself unable longer to wield the 
club. Both therefore cast away their weapons, and the 
next instant rushed forward foaming with rage for each 
other’s life. .In spite of his age, David still possessed great 
bodily strength. After a few blows with their fists, each 
clutched the other in his arms, and they fell struggling to 
the ground. The fall burst the fastenings of the centu- 
rion’s helmet, and it fell off, uncovering his head. Instantly, 
one of David’s men, who had just conquered in a duel close 
by, darted forward to rescue his chief, and cleft with his 
sword, the Gothic barbarian’s head, but fell, the next 
moment, in his victim’s blood, cut down by a legionary. The 
old Donatist priest, freed from his enemy, raised himself 
upon his Herculean legs, and felt again for his club. Around 
him, his few remaining men were fighting for their lives, or 
had already fallen in the midst of the legionaries’ lines. 
There was no one to defend the leader as he rose up grasp- 
ing his club — pierced by many lances, he fell to the earth, 
and the enemy’s advancing columns trampled over his 
corpse. 

The fight between this little band of colonists and the 
imperial soldiers, was soon ended. Scarce a dozen of the 
former succeeded in escaping by flight, and rejoining their 
friends on the other side of the valley. 

But the rebel position could not long bo defended against 


The Last Athenian. 


527 


the greatly superior numbers of the enemy. The men, to 
whom Chrysanteus had entrusted the defence of the centre, 
were nearly all killed. David’s independent movement, 
and the forgetfulness of orders on the part of the colonists 
who hastened to his assistance, decided the fate of the day, 
and of the entire little army. Annaeus Domitius ordered 
his troops to storm the heights. He saw that they could 
not meet with any serious resistance. The legionaries 
advanced with the cry, “ God and the Emperor.” 

During all this time, the battle had raged incessantly 
around the barricade. The palatines and troops supporting 
them, had again and again advanced only to be driven back. 
The fight was still progressing between the imperialists, who 
continually brought up fresh troops, and the untired Nova- 
tians. Chrysanteus had alighted from his horse and fought 
wherever danger was greatest, by the side of his men. All 
around the barricade, lay heaps of corpses. 

A decisive moment had arrived for the flank also. The 
palatines, spurred on by bishop Peter, who now hastened to 
take part, personally, in the fray, had at last succeeded in 
gaining possession of a single point in the barricade, and 
drawn themselves up inside, while their comrades behind 
them tore away the abattis, to open a breach for the terrible 
cavalry, which impatiently awaited the opportunity of tak- 
ing part in the s'trife. 

The moment had come. The signal was given for the 
cavalry to advance. 

Chrysanteus, seeing the immediate danger which threat- 
ened, but still ignorant of what had taken place upon the 
front, had left the hand-to-hand combat, to collect all the 
force possible to prevent or meet the cavalry attack. Before 
this was made, a desperate onset of the colonists’ concen- 
trated force had hurled the palatines over the barricade. 
The next moment, the “ iron pillars” entered through the 
gap, but were met in the narrow way by the little body of 


528 


The Last Athenian. 


insurgent horse which protected the entrance to the posi- 
tion. The breach was soon closed by a barricade of fallen 
men and horses. 

Such was the aspect of the conflict, when Theodorus, — 
whom Chrysanteus had ordered to hasten to the front, and 
•acquaint himself with the condition of things there, — 
returned and informed him that the line was almost without 
defence, and that the legionaries had just descended into the 
valley to take it. The intelligence was scarcely spoken, 
before the battle-cry of the stormers was heard. 

“ The day is lost,” said Chrysanteus. “ Theodorus, 
hasten away, and bear to Hermione my greeting and bless- 
ing.” 

He again mounted his horse, and returned to the hope- 
less strife. Its fate was soon sealed. The few remnants 
of the colonists were assaulted on both sides by Annaeus 
Domitius’ whole force. Amid cries of anguish and despair 
from the women and children, the mountain plateau was 
overflowed on the one side by deep masses of infantry, 
on the other by squadrons of the “ iron pillars.” The 
resistance of the colonists dissolved into single contests one 
against many. In - the midst of the strife, there still was 
seen a knight in a white mantle. Annaeus Domitius and 
Peter both recognized him, and spurred their horses to the 
point where he fought. But before they r’eached it, he had 
disappeared beneath the iron billows, and his bloody horse 
galloped riderless over the field. 

Chrysanteus corse was found after the close of' the 
battle. He lay stretched upon the sod, with sword clenched 
in his hand, and mantle dyed with blood from his pierced . 
breast. As Annaeus Domitius reverentially approached the 
slain, Peter stood regarding him, and Euphemius, his adju- 
tant, placed his flat foot upon the breast of the beautiful 
heroic form, and said : 

“Thus does the church 
under her feet.” 


trample the hydra of heathendom 


The Last Athenian . 


529 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE END. 

One evening, about a month after the campaign in 
Sunium, presbyter Euphemius was sitting, with his spiritual 
father, in the episcopal palace, in the very same narrow 
room, with port-hole windows, where the reader has already 
overheard a conversation between them. 

As then, Peter measured the floor with earnest step, and 
Euphemius had* taken his humble place in a chair by the 
door. 

Euphemius’ low forehead formed no longer a sallow, but 
a brown strip, between his black hair and black eyebrows, 
for the campaign had tanned him. His head, as usual, was 
bent forward, and his small black eyes looked up, half veiled 
by their lashes. 

Peter’s face bore a prouder stamp than ever. It shone 
with certainty of victory. Some of his great hopes were, 
probably, about to be accomplished. The warlike honor he 
had gained in the battles with the heretic colony, was cer- 
tainly not sufficient to effect this, though it lived upon the 
lips of all the Homoiousian Athenians. 

When that portion of the imperial troops belonging to 
the garrison at Athens, entered the city after the victorious 
campaign, Peter was seen girded with a sword, riding upon 
a prancing war-horse, at the head of the procession, which 
made a splendid appearance, and resembled a triumph. 
First, as we have named, came Peter, and by his side the 
tribune of the Jovian guard. Then a detachment of legion- 
aries. After these, a little band of men, women and chil- 
dren, the melancholy relics of the Novatian and Donatist 
colony in Sunium. The men, only nine or ten in number, 
taken prisoners on the battle field, were covered with wounds, 


530 


The Last Athenian. 


and dragged heavy chains ; the women were many, and yet 
few in comparison with those who, after the battle, had been 
butchered by the wild u iron pillars ; ” the children, some 
of them borne in their mothers’ arms, formed the greatest 
portion of the throng. Behind the prisoners, was a sump- 
tuously decorated chariot. On this were placed the holy 
vessels of the church, and in their midst the baptismal font, 
in which, after the defeat of the heretics, their children had 
received the rite of baptism. Beside the chariot, the black- 
haired Euphemius was seen, riding upon an ass, and bearing 
the holy cross. The procession ended with a few centuries 
of infantry. 

Hermione did not appear among the prisoners. Chrysan- 
teus’ letter had fallen safely into the hands of Annaeus 
Domitius ; and Hermione, the only prisoner he retained for 
himself, — the others being turned over to Peter, — was 
taken under his special protection, and conveyed to Corinth. 

It was rumored in the mean time at Athens, that Chry- 
santeus’ daughter had returned to her paternal city, in com- 
pany with the wife of the proconsul, the pious Eusebia ; 
and that the sorrowing girl resided at the proconsular pal- 
ace, with the noble Boman lady, who manifested towards 
her the warm sympathy of a sister. 

Much was spoken about Hermione, during this time, at 
Athens. It was whispered among Christians, and even 
among the professors of the old faith, that the philosopher’s 
daughter had been converted, by Peter, to Christianity. The 
extraordinary bishop thus gained for his holy religion, one 
triumph after another. He had converted the arch-heathen’s 
sons and daughter, — the latter a woman who not only had 
been educated from childhood to hate and despise Christi- 
anity, but was also clad in an armor which proved itself 
more impregnable than hate and contempt against the 
arrows of revealed truth, — philosophy. 

A rumor was also afloat, hastily spread and generally be- 


The Last Athenian. 


531 


lieved, that Hermione wished to connect herself insepera- 
bly with the Christian church, by baptism. 

hen this should take place, Athens’ cathedral would be 
filled to overflowing with devout beholders. 

Theodorus had escaped by flight, after bearing Chrysan- 
teus’ greeting and blessing to Hermione, and delivering the 
letter, concealed in the log-hut, to one of the trusty servants 
who had followed Chrysanteus from Athens, and remained 
with Hermione throughout the battle. 

From this servant Annaeus Domitius had received the 
letter. 

How Theodorus escaped, is hard to say. Perhaps he 
made use of one of the fishing boats, which lay upon the 
beach below the cliffs. With one of these, he could easily 
enough, when the sea was smooth, have rowed past the hos- 
tile camp, gained the shore again, and hastened by land to 
Athens. 

At any rate, his friends there, and Myro among them, had 
seen and spoken with him. That he concealed himself from 
the gaze of all others, is very natural. It was by no means 
his intention to be caught by the Homoiousian priests or 
the imperial officers. He had much to live for. 

After passing two days at Athens, in the congenial circle 
of brothers and sisters in the faith, to their mutual conso- 
lation, he repaired to Corinth, to gain information about 
Hermione. 

After waiting vainly several days for an opportunity to 
speak with Hermione, he departed from Corinth upon an 
adventurous foot journey to Italy. 

He had boldly decided to present himself before the em- 
peror of the West, claim his protection for Hermione, and 
by entreaties compel him to reinstate Chrysanteus’ daugh- 
ter in the possessions her father had bequeathed her. 

His hopes of success rested upon God and the praises for 
humanity, generosity and justice, bestowed upon the brother 
o. cruel, bigoted Yalens. 


582 


The Last Athenian. 


Let us return to the apartment where we left Peter and 
Euphemius in conversation. 

“ The matter has, in reality, a critical side,” declared the 
former, as he stopped and cast a glance at the map of 
Ptolemy. 

“ It is impossible for me to see it, my father,” said Euphe- 
mius, humbly. “ When not even Clemens has any claim to 
the inheritance, Hermione has still less. The emperor or 
the state, which is the same thing here, has confiscated the 
possessions of the rebels and presented them to the church.” 

“It is in reality as you say, but the form is different. 
You know that there already exists a godless party, especi- 
ally in the senate, army and office-holding class, who raise 
their voices against the custom the church has, of receiving 
gifts and testaments. This cry is supported here in the 
East by the Homoousians and all other heretics, because it 
is not their own, but our orthodox Homoiousian congrega- 
tion, which receives these gifts and testaments. In the West, 
on the other hand, where the Homoousians are still the 
stronger, they are silent, and it is our own orthodox brethren 
who join in the cry. Well, the emperor Yalens, who is the 
steadfast and zealous friend of our church, fancies neverthe- 
less, that there is some truth in the outcry. His conscience 
is hooked fast to such misunderstood texts as, ‘ The king- 
dom of *God is not of this world,” and others of the same 
sort. When, therefore, my pious friend and revered superior, 
patriarch Eudoxus, laid our weighty errand before him, we 
did not request that the emperor should give up his right 
directly to the church, but that he would graciously deign 
to make the innocent son of Chrysanteus the possessor of 
his family fortune ; and only as an inducement for grant- 
ing this our prayer, we produced the will, in which Clemens 
resigns the same fortune to the church. Clemens is thus a 
go-between. But the relatives of Charmides now threaten 
to avail themselves of this matter of form. They see, 


The Last Athenian. 


533 


that the right of the sister is secured as well as that of 
the brother, and will, in case of need, apply to the emperor 
himself to carry their point, that Hermione shall receive her 
share of the inheritance.” 

“We understand their calculations,” said Euphemius. 
“Perhaps they hope that Clemens will shortly die and Her- 
mione thus take the whole, since her rights will, in the end, 
pass over to the relatives of Charmides, with whom she was 
united, though only for a few hours.” 

“ This, beyond a doubt, is their calculation.” 

“ It is a godlessness without example,” remarked Euphe- 
mius. 

“ The only thing that makes the matter at all doubtful,” 
continued the bishop, “ is the circumstance that Clemens is 
a Christian, and Hermione still stands without the commu- 
nion of the Christian congregation.” 

“ But why does this make the matter doubtful, my 
father ? ” asked Euphemius. 

“The emperor Yalens is an enemy to Christian heretics, 
hut shows great condescension towards the confessors of the 
old religion. He flatters himself, alas ! with the false pride 
of being able to say that he administers justice equally to 
heathen and orthodox Christians. On this account I fear 
that, in order to avoid the appearance of partiality, he will 
more willingly give ear to Charmides’ relatives, when they 
plead Hermione’s right.” 

“ Ah, it is for this, then, that you send me to Hermione, 
to induce her publicly to unite herself with the Christian 
church.” 

“ Yes. I myself have no hope of success with Chrysan- 
teus’ daughter, tor she hates the very sight of me. You are 
eloquent, Euphemius, and have a talent of insinuating your- 
self into the good graces of women. I hope that your at- 
tempt will be crowned with success, all the more as the 
noble Eusebia assures us, that Hermione is ripe for the re- 
ception of truth.” 


534 


The Last Athenian . 


“ Everybody in Athens says she is Christian — ” 

“ I know it.” 

“ And that very soon she will receive baptism.” 

“ I know that, too. We must not let the people’s faith in 
the converting power of our religion be put to shame. The 
rumor must be confirmed. The reputation of our holy faith, 
the interest of the church and — I say it openly, — my own 
vanity demands it.” 

“ You are right, my father.” 

“ You will find allies, Euphemius, in our pious Eusebia, 
who has succeeded in winning Hermione’s full confidence ; 
in Clemens, my unhappy foster spn, who daily besieges her 
with prayers to be baptized ; and, above all, in her own heart, 
crushed with sorrow. There is another circumstance, which 
will assist in moving her. The physician in charge of 
Clemens will be sent to her, and tell her that the youth may 
be restored to his right mind, by the joy Hermione will 
afford him in allowing herself to be baptized. All this 
ought to make your victory easy.” 

“My father,” said Euphemius thoughtfully, “ the allies 
you enumerate are powerful, still my task will be a difficult 
one. Hope not for speedy success ! I know from Eusebia 
that Hermione despises the church. Theodorus has poured 
the poison into her soul. 0, that Theodorus has injured us 
more than you suppose. She will not believe that the work- 
ing of the Spirit upon our hearts is connected with certain 
outward forms. She regards the communion as simply a 
festival of memory and love, and baptism as the mere sign 
of that purification which the heart should undergo. She 
confesses, indeed, the name of Christ, but is still the same 
proud, defiant, reason- trusting philosopher as before.” 

“ This pride must be conquered,” said the bishop, “ and 
the reason I have entrusted the affair to you, my Euphe- 
mius, is that our success must be speedy. We may other- 
wise lose much. I expect that your work will be accom- 
plished within a week — ” 


The Last Athenian. 


535 


“ My father — ” 

“ This is a critical time. The matter cannot he post- 
poned longer.” 

“ But if I should not succeed in — ” 

u The rite of baptism must he administered neverthe- 
less.” 

“ Ah ! ” 

“We must not give way to any difficulty, when the weal 
of the church is at stake.” 

“ You are right.” 

“ And the church will not forget the faithful services her 
son Euphemius has shown her,” continued Peter. “It is 
probable, Euphemius, that you will be my successor in the 
bishop’s chair at Athens.” 

“ Your successor,” exclaimed Euphemius, in mournful 
astonishment. “Is it true, then, the depressing rumor that 
you are about to leave your flock ? ” 

“I feel within my soul a strong desire to renounce 
the world and repair to the pious monks in Nisibis, to beg 
a place among them.” 

“ You must not do this,” exclaimed Euphemius, earnestly. 
“ You would leave your blessed occupation, while in the 
prime of life, and when you can work best in the vineyard ! 
Father, this would be a sin ! ” 

Peter made no answer, but walked the floor in silence. 

“ It would be otherwise,” continued Euphemius, lowering 
his voice, “ if it be true, what the rumor also reports, that 
you are called to a much larger field, more suited to your 
powers, to the deeply venerated bishopric in the ancient 
capital of the world, which your namesake, the apostle 
Peter, himself filled.” 

“Rumor is like a garrulous old woman,” said Peter. 

“ How improbable that the Romans should prefer an 
oriental to their own distinguished men ! Ilomoiousion 
also, which, we confess, is at Rome, alas, the belief of the 


536 


The Last Athenian. 


minority. How then can you think, that an oriental and 
Homoiousian — I do not speak of my unworthy self, hut 
of the best and worthiest among us — can, in our day, be the 
recipient of such an honor ? My son, our conversation 
is now closed. Go and attend to your duties.” 

Euphemius arose, bowed low and withdrew. 

A few hours after this interview, Euphemius had another 
with two men, just arrived from Home. 

The bishopric of Rome had now bee® vacant about three 
months. Many aspirants were found for the post. The 
different parties hastened to gather about their leaders, and 
each held out his own as the only one worthy to keep the 
keys of Heaven and hell. 

Among these aspirants, there appeared a Grecian bishop, 
Peter of Athens, whose name was well known throughout 
Christendom, and not least at Rome. Who did not know 
the famous pillar-saint, the ornament of the city of 
Minerva ? With Simon’s name was closely connected that 
of Peter of Athens. It belonged to the man who, by the 
power of his prayer, had aroused Simon from the dead. 
This miracle had been borne on the wings of rumor over 
the whole world. 

The two men from Rome we just named, had appointed 
an interview with Euphemius, in a garden without the city 
gates, and the conversation took place after sunset. 

At first the strangers told Euphemius that his father, the 
bishop, had a good prospect of being the successor of saint 
Peter, in the Roman episcopate. 

Euphemius expressed his heart-felt joy at this, and con- 
gratulated not only his father bishop, who thus received a 
fitting place in the ranks of the Christian church, but also 
the Roman congregation, who could not possibly make a 
more excellent choice. 

Euphemius added that it must be the work of the Spirit, 
having all the indications of a Divine miracle, that the 


The Last Athenian . 


537 


opinion at Home should be so favorable towards a man who, 
otherwise, would have been the object of the Homan con- 
gregation’s prejudiced disdain. 

“ You mean,” said one of the strangers, “that his 
Homoiousian tenets would, according to all human expe- 
rience, render his name inadmissible at the election of 
bishop in a congregation which, more rigidly than all others, 
clings to the principles of the Nicene council ? ” 

“ Certainly,” answered Euphemius. 

“ The ways of Providence,” resumed the stranger, “ are 
wonderful, and this difficulty, which, to the natural eye 
seems insurmountable, is in reality removed.” 

“ What do you mean ? How could this happen ? ” 

“It is rumored among the Homan Homoousians that 
Peter of Athens is by no means so strict a Homoiousian as 
has been supposed. This rumor has become a fixed article 
of faith, especially among the numerous class of poor 
citizens. ‘ He unites,’ they say, ‘ the wisdom of the serpent 
and the gentleness of the dove. He wears a mask, which 
he will cast aside, as soon as he finds the right time has 
come, and the interests of the church demand it. Were he 
not at heart orthodox, how could his prayers have possessed 
power to awake Simon stylites from the dead?’ Thus 
the pious question one another in the eternal city. 1 It is 
our duty to choose him,’ they also say. ‘ that he may cast off 
this disguise, and before the world humble Homoiousion 
as much as he elevates the orthodox confession of Nice.’ 
I speak as the people at Home.” 

“ But where can this false rumor have arisen ? ” asked 
Euphemius. 

“Call it not false,” said the stranger: “it is perhaps a 
means of the Spirit for accomplishing some great end. 
There are shrewd persons who believe this rumor. But 
enough, Peter is sure of victory. Numerous votes will fall 
to him from both the great parties.” 


538 The Last Athenian. 

“ But he must have powerful opponents,” Euphemius re- 
marked. 

“ Certainly ” 

" And to these opponents may he reckoned, without doubt 
emperor Valentinianus himself, and his court, together with 
all the nobility at Borne who follow the imperial nod.” 

“ You are mistaken,” said the stranger. “ If he reck- 
oned these among his opponents, his success would be by no 
means secure.” 

“ The emperor and court also favorable to him ! But this 
is astonishing ! ” 

a It can be explained, however. Providence has decreed 
that your father Peter, at this very time, should gain posses- 
sion of a means, which will infallibly win for him the hearts 
of even the imperial favorites.” 

11 And this means ? ” inquired Euphemius, turning pale. 

“ Is money.” 

“ Ah ! ” thought Euphemius. “ I guessed it.” 

He added aloud : 

“ Stranger, you slander my father bishop. He could 
never demean himself by using this low and contemptible 
means of gaining supporters and votes — ” 

“ Hold,” exclaimed the man from Home. 11 You are 
pleased to judge too hastily, as well as unjustly. It is not 
the first time the bishopric at Koine has been bought. The 
means is sanctified by the example of holy men. Let us 
not therefore condemn it.” 

“ Can you prove what you have said?” asked Euphe- 
mius. 

“ That the Koman bishopric has been bought more than 
once ? ” 

“ Ho, the past concerns me not — I wish to know if it be 
true that Peter has bought it.” 

“ The bargain is not yet concluded, but negotiations are 
at this moment going on,” said the stranger. “ To prove my 


The Last Athenian . 539 

words, please read this letter. Let ns go to the nearest 
torch. Its light will confirm all I have said.” 

The three men left the garden, and repaired to a torch, 
burning near the city gate. 

Euphemius read a few letters, exchanged between Peter 
whose hand-writing he knew, and one of the most influential 
courtiers of Valentinianus. The letters were short and enig- 
matical, hut one of the strangers was able to explain the 
darker points, and it became clear to Euphemius that the 
letters were about a considerable sum of money. 

“This,” remarked the stranger, “is only one among many 
votes your father bishop deems it necessary to secure with 
gold. He lavishes a princely fortune to gain his object, 
hut he does this without 'scruple, for he knows that the 
object once gained, will repay him with interest.” 

“ One question more,” said the other stranger, who spoke 
Greek fluently, though hailing from Pome. “Where will 
Peter obtain all these sums. His enemies mistrust that he 
is making use of Chrysanteus’ colossal fortune, which was 
turned over to the church. But this is, of course, a base 
calumny.” 

“ Of course,” muttered Euphemius, very pale. “ Of 
course, for this property does not belong to him,* but to the 
church, and the right of administering upon it was expressly 
given to him, only in his capacity as bishop of Athens, and 
will thus fall upon his successor — ” 

“ Who is no other than yourself,” interrupted the same 
stranger. 

“ How do you know this ? ” inquired Euphemius, with a 
searching and very expressive look at the man. 

“ Speak out freely,” one stranger whispered to the other ; 
“ it is not dangerous. They were not mistaken about him.” 

“ I know it from patriarch Eudoxus in New Pome,” he 
answered. 

“You?” 


540 


The Last Athenian . 


“ I have just come from him. He confirms in advance 
your election, though you may receive only a few votes among 
the Athenian congregation. Eudoxus is far-sighted. He 
knows, that the fold at Athens will soon be without a shep- 
herd. Peter goes to Pome. You will be his successor. 
Your confirmation is in my pocket. Look here ! Bead ! ” 

The stranger took out a roll of parchment, which Euphe- 
mius seized with trembling hand, and perused with greedy, 
searching looks. A slight blush which appeared on his 
cheeks, gave evidence of the emotion within. 

As he read this document, the other stranger withdrew, 
leaving Euphemius alone with the messenger from patriarch 
Eudoxus. 

After he had finished reading, he made a movement as if 
to return the roll, but the stranger said : 

“ It is the patriarch’s will that you retain it, in order that 
thereby you may be continually reminded of the duties 
which, from this moment, rest upon you. And now I give 
you Eudoxus’ greeting, with the peace of God and our Lord 
Jesus Christ.” 

Euphemius bowed low, carefully rolled up the important 
document, and thrust it into his girdle. 

“Let us speak without circumlocution,” continued the 
stranger. “ Eudoxus expects you to do your duty.” 

“ I have learnt to obey.” 

“ I know it — and he will not be deceived in the opinion 
he entertains of your zeal for the church, your obedience 
and wisdom.” 

“ What does my father Eudoxus require of his obedient 
son ? ” asked Euphemius, in humble tone. 

“ That you perceive what, at this moment, is the common 
interest of the church and the Athenian congregation.” 

Euphemius was silent, and cast a searching glance at the 
speaker, who continued, 

“ And when you have perceived this, that you act accord- 
ingly.” 


The Last Athenian . 


541 


“ This is my duty.” 

“ Answer me — how far does your duty extend ? ” 

<( As far as my power.” 

“ And how far your power ? ” 

u So far that I sacrifice my conviction, my feelings, my 
relations of family, all private duties, and my own life, upon 
the holy altar of obedience,” answered Eupliemius, repeating 
the words he had sworn as priest. 

u Good, you will prove this by your actions. What do 
you think of the rumor, which supports Peter’s claim at 
Rome ? Give heed, now, how you answer ! ” 
u That he himself started it.” 
u Do you doubt its probability ? ” 

“ I know not what to say.” . 

“ Do you deem it possible, that Peter can go over to the 
Nicene faith ? ” 

“ Man,” answered Euphemius, u will do many things. 
My father’s holy namesake, the rock on which our church 
is built, not only denied Homoiousion, but Christ himself.” 

u Our superior, patriarch Eudoxus, holds the same opinion 
concerning the bishop of Athens. To Peter, power is first, 
and Homoiousion second. He will sacrifice the latter for 
the former. He will be compelled to do this, even against 
his will, if he wishes to remain a single month in the epis- 
copal chair at Rome. The populace of the Tiber city will 
rise and drive him out if they find he has deceived them. 
You know that even Constantius wished to have two 
bishops at Rome, one for the Nicenes, the other for the 
Homoiousians. The people answered him with the cry 
one God and one bishop ! 

“ True,” said Euphemius with a sigh. “ The power of 
circumstance will compel Peter to apostatize. It is an af- 
fecting, horrible thought.” 

“ And by this the orthodox church will suffer an indelible 
disgrace,” continued the messenger. 

34 


542 


The Last Athenian. 


“Yes,” added Euphemius, “and our enemies will raise 
their jubilee to the skies.” 

“ This would be an incalculable misfortune.” 

“ Alas, you are right.” 

“We must, therefore, prevent it.” 

“ Yes. But how ? ” 

“ There is only one means. Eudoxus places it in your 
hands, with full confidence in your zeal and obedience.” 

Euphemius sighed, and lowered his eyes to the ground. 

“ The orthodox church awaits its salvation from Euphe- 
mius,” said the messenger. “Woe to him if he betrays 
her and his oath ! ” 

“ 0, what shall I do ? I totter under the burden the 
church lays upon my weak shoulders. I love my father 
Peter — he has shown me innumerable benefactions.” 

“ A further reason for your acting with decision. Love 
should not be weak and foolish. You promote his eternal 
welfare, and prevent the glory of his illustrious labors from 
being tarnished, when you prevent this otherwise inevitable 
apostacy.” 

Euphemius sighed again. 

“ Posterity,” continued the messenger, “ will possess — 
when what should be done, is done, — a spotless, pure and 
radiant memory of one of the world’s greatest men. The 
saintly glory will be decreed publicly to him.” 

“ What do you say ? ” interrupted Euphemius — with ani- 
mation. “ Praised be Eudoxus, who has so determined ! 
But it is nevertheless only an act of just recognition. Peter 
will be greeted with honor in the circle of saints.” 

“ It depends upon you, whether his 'memory shall be 
branded with the ignoble stamp of apostacy, or shine 
through all coming time with the radiance of his saintly 
glory.” 

“ It does not depend upon me. I have only one thing to 
do ; I must obey.” 


The Last Athenian . 


543 


“ You speak truly. You comprehend your duty aright. 
But it should he less difficult for you to obey, when you 
reflect that you spare the church a defeat, save your father 
bishop’s soul, and glorify his name.” 

“It should be less difficult for me to obey,” repeated 
Euphemius. 

“ It is agreed, then, and the church can rely upon you ? ” 

“ God’s will be done ! ” 

“ What is necessary must he done quickly.” 

“ I perceive this.” 

u We meet here at this time to-morrow. I have more to 
tell you concerning young Clemens’ testament. It will he 
your duty to see that all this respectable fortune is not 
squandered in the hands of its first guardian, for the promo- 
tion of his private interests.” 

Euphemius was silent. 

“ Good night, my brother ! We shall see each other 
again to-morrow.” 

“Yes.” 

The two men separated, and Euphemius repaired to his 
room in the Episcopal palace. 

That same evening, Peter had a long conversation with 
two other men from Borne. Athens was visited at this 
time by many travellers from the eternal city, and intrigues 
in regard to the approaching important choice of a Boman 
bishop were carried on as diligently here, as at Constanti- 
nople or Borne. 

One gloomy, rainy evening about three weeks after the 
events narrated above, the wife of Annaeus Domitius, the 
pious Eusebia, was' seen to leave the Cathedral with coun- 
tenance pale and agitated, seat herself in the carriage wait- 
ing outside the entrance, and drive away. 

It was already dusk, and the streets were almost empty, 
as it rained violently. 


544 


The Last Athenian. 


About a quarter of an hour after Eusebia had left the 
Cathedral, its doors were shut, and a flock of priests stole 
thence will enveloped in their cloaks. 

One of these priests separated from the others, and took 
his way, with hasty steps, to the Episcopal palace. Under 
his cowl could have been discerned the face of the black- 
haired Euphemius, but paler than usual, and stamped with 
deep anxiety. 

When he reached the palace and the porter opened for 
him, he asked the latter with a voice he sought to render 
calm, if the physician had visited the bishop during his 
absence. 

The porter answering in the affirmative, Euphemius hur- 
ried on to the bishop’s study. 

At dinner, Peter, after making a light repast and drink- 
ing a cup of wine and water, had felt a sudden illness, which 
increased with such violence that he was compelled to absent 
himself from the secretly prepared ceremony to take place 
that evening in the cathedral — the baptism of Her- 
mione. 

When Euphemius entered the study, his father bishop 
sat upon a cushioned sofa, his limbs enveloped in a woolen 
blanket. 

Peter gave a sign to the servant brethren present, to 
withdraw. 

Euphemius had taken off* his dripping cloak in the vesti- 
bule, and appeared now in the priestly robes he had worn 
during the solemn ceremony at the cathedral. His bearing 
was more humble, his head more bowed, and his look more 
unsteady than usual, as he gazed towards the bishop. The 
sickness had made evident progress during Euphemius’ 
absence. Peter’s complexion was ashy gray, and deep blue 
rings had appeared under his eyes ; but the power of will 
still stamped the relaxing features with an expression of 
strength, and the eyes, though they had lost their brilliancy, 
retained their firm, piercing and commanding glance. 


The Last Athenian. 


545 


“ Revered father and superior, how do you find yourself ? ” 
asked Euphemius, in an uneasy tone, standing by the door 
an'd folding his arms over his white linen tunic, ornamented 
with a golden cross. 

“ Sick enough,” answered the bishop. “ The physician 
has confirmed my opinion, that it is a violent cold. I 
walked yesterday, with bare feet, upon the cold stone floor 
of the church. That is the cause. But a severe master’s 
sway is short. I hope to he well to-morrow. How is it with 
yourself? continued the bishop, as he observed how pale 
Euphemius was. Are you also unwell ? ” 

And without waiting for an answer to his question, he 
added in a loud voice, 

“ The baptism ! how did it pass off? ” 

“ Reverend father,” said Euphemius, “ I hear tidings, 
which — I hesitate to reveal to you — ” 

11 What has happened ? No preambles ! ” exclaimed 
Peter. “ Did she mistrust and refuse to he present ? ” 

“ No, my father, she mistrusted nothing. She arrived at 
the church in company with the noble Eusebia — ” 

“ Well, were unbidden spectators present at the ceremony ? 
I told you, that the matter should he enveloped in secresy, 
and the church doors shut, since it appeared she would not 
voluntarily submit to baptism.” 

“ Father, we obeyed your orders. With the exception of 
the noble Eusebia and two witnesses, no others were present 
hut the priests ; and Hermione had scarcely entered the 
church, before the door was locked behind her — ” 

“Well then, what has happened !” exclaimed Peter, im- 
patiently. “ Slow mortal, give wings to your words. Re- 
late everything clearly and in its order ! ” 

“ You know, that my endeavors to convince her of the 
true nature of baptism bore no fruit — ” 

“Yes. I know.”* • 

“ We sought then to allow her to think whatever she 


546 


The Last Athenian. 


pleased about it, and restricted our efforts to persuading her 
to receive the holy baptism in the presence of the assembled 
congregation, leaving her at liberty to consider it only as a 
ceremony.” 

“ I know this.” 

“ She rejected this proposition as well. I noticed especi- 
ally, that she had lost all confidence in me, and all respect 
for my teaching, after we had a conversation upon the true 
meaning of Christ’s mission. I endeavored to make her 
comprehend that God, by sending Christ, had made it possi- 
ble for man to break away from the power of the devil. She 
repelled this doctrine with philosophic arrogance, declared it 
to be contemptible, and blasphemous both to God and 
reason. During those days, there was in her temper a re- 
markable mingling of stubbornness and self-confidence, with 
humility and sorrow. Her eyes gleamed and her lips 
smiled, as if in transport, when she spoke of the Savior ; 
she blessed his name and kissed his cross, but nevertheless 
would not receive the doctrines which the church-fathers, 
inspired by the Holy Spirit, have erected upon the ground- 
work of his apostles and evangelists. You know I have 
faithfully followed your counsel, and that of the holy Paul, 
to guard myself against philosophy. I was therefore un- 
able to bandy words with her. What was I to do, then, but 
to take myself out of the way, and leave the deluded woman 
to the sisterly affection of the noble Eusebia ? ” 

“ I know all this,” exclaimed Peter, with renewed impati- 
ence, “ now for the event itself.” 

“Father,” said Euphemius, “I remind you of these things, 
not to try your patience, but to cast from my shoulders the 
sorrowful, I may say horrible, and entirely unexpected result 
of our endeavors — ” 

“ What then has happened,” interrupted Peter, with anx- 
iety plainly depicted upon his ashy countenance. 

“Your indisposition, which, with God’s help, will soon be 


The Last Athenian. 


547 


removed, has prevented you from taking part in this deplor- 
able business. At the appointed time we were assembled 
in the Cathedral, and it was not long before Eusebia’s carri- 
age stopped outside the door. Hermione accompanied her. 
It had cost Eusebia much trouble to persuade Hermione to 
take this airing, and the servant drove, as if by chance, to 
the church. The rain just then commenced, and this cir- 
cumstance supported Eusebia in her proposal to Hermione, 
that they should seek shelter in the open, but empty church, 
where they could also say their prayers.” 

“ Go on, go on !” exclaimed the bishop, seizing the cup in 
which his physician had prepared a spiced healing drink. 
But he loosened his hold of the cup, saying, 

“ My fingers are numbed. I begin to feel the same icy 
chill in my hands and feet. What does it mean ? — Euphe- 
mius, place the cup to my lips ! ” 

The presbyter hastened to assist Peter, but his hand 
trembled greatly. 

“ Father, how do you feel ? ” he asked, with anguish in his 
voice. 

M 111 — but continue, and in heaven’s name let me hear the 
end of your story ! ” 

“ Well then, I will briefly tell you, my father, that after 
Eusebia and Hermione had entered, the church doors were 
closed, according to your order. We priests then reverenti- 
ally approached Hermione. I said to her it was a dispensa- 
tion of Providence that she came to the church now, just as 
we arose from a prayer, in which we called upon God to 
open the heart of Hermione, who already acknowledged 
Christ as her master, so that she might desire the closer 
union w r ith him and his church, gained by baptism. She 
was evidently confused, — all the more as Clemens was 
present, and with his melancholy looks reproached her for 
hesitating. Eusebia embraced her and conjured her to 
listen to our words. And nevertheless, my father, she per- 
sisted in rejecting — ” 


548 


The Last Athenian. 


“Well; well!" 

We were then compelled to employ the most extreme 
measures. We led her, with gentle force, to the baptismal 
font, and the ceremony commenced. She prayed and la- 
mented in her blindness, but we were proof against this, and 
when at last she began to cry aloud for help, we were forced 
to silence her by means of a cloth, which we stuffed into 
her mouth. The holy rite would then have progressed with- 
out hindrance, if the unhappy Clemens had not disturbed 
it. In the troubled condition of his soul, he suddenly be- 
came the prey to a feeling of pity for the refractory girl. 
He sought to set her free, fancying, without doubt, that 
some evil was intended her. We were obliged to remove 
him from the church. After this, my father, the ceremony 
was completed, and Hermione was baptized in the name of 
the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Who 
could have supposed, that the evil spirit, which was exor- 
. cised by baptism, would so soon have regained possession of 
her soul, and enticed her to a horrible suicide ! ” 

“ Suicide ! What say you ? ” ejaculated Peter, and strove 
to rise up from the sofa, but fell back again. 

“ Alas yes, my father! The holy formula was scarcely ut- 
tered, before she tore herself loose, with unexpected violence, 
from those who held her, caught the stylus from her girdle, 
and plunged it into her bosom.” 

“ Ah!” 

She sank to the floor, blood streamed from her wound : 
all stood amazed and irresolute around her, and when at last 
we came to our senses, and hastened to stay the - flickering 
spark of life, it had already gone out. Father, Hermione is 
no more numbered among the living.” * 

* An event similar to the one which ended Hermione’s life, hap- 
pened, a fevv decades later, to Photius, a learned Roman and New- 
Platonic philosopher, who, when dragged with force to be baptized 
thrust a dagger into his breast. 

For those of our readers who have not studied the history of 


The Last Athenian. 549 

A few moments’ silence ensued. The bishop was evident- 
ly absorbed in anxious thoughts. 

“ A deplorable occurrence,” he said at length, " which will 
cause a very undesirable sensation, and will, without doubt, 
be used by m3* enemies to my injury. They will carry the 
matter to the ears of both emperors, and place it in con- 
nection with the question about the will. It is not possible 
to conceal the event. Euphemius, return to your chamber, 
and compose immediately, with all the shrewdness you are 
master of, an account of this matter, to be sent to the pa- 
triarch Eudoxus, and by him imparted to the emperor. In 
explaining the occurrence, you will take for a key note, that 
both children, Clemens and Hermione, inherited from their 
mother a predisposition to insanity ; that this sickness 
long since manifested itself in the brother, but in the sister 
it appeared only T in isolated actions, of which suicide was 
the last, and alas ! entirely unexpected. Explain also, that 
Hermione went voluntarily to the baptism, contrary to what 
an evil-disposed rumor had circulated. This account must 
be ready early to-morrow morning, and be immediately sent 
off to Constantinople. Go now to your occupation.! ” 

Euphemius cast one more shy, but searching look at 
Peter’s pallid countenance, upon which the excitement had 
not succeeded in spreading the slightest color, bowed low 
and withdrew. 

A few moments after this conversation, the bishop’s con- 
dition became so critical, that the physician was again sum- 
moned. The chill which Peter felt in his hands and feet, 
extended rapidly through his limbs, which, as they became 
pervaded by it, refused to obey his will. The physician in 
vain administered warm drinks and powerful friction. The 
priests, living in the palace, gathered about their superior, 

the church, it will not be out of place perhaps to remark that the 
episodes from it described in this work are by no means painted in 
darker colors than reality possesses. 


550 


The Last Athenian. 


and rendered him every possible attention. Most zealous 
among them all, was Euphemius. The physician, however, 
was certain there was no danger. The sick man thought 
the same, and would have thought so, if the whole world 
had assured him of the contrary, for he would live, and 
deemed it impossible he should die now , when he stood at 
5 >UC c€S 5 "the e nd of - hi s ^meeessfuh-careeg-, and readjr to grasp the 
^uf CU^ - Roman crook, which, in his hands, would be changed to a 
v ncctiiYs sceptre, ruling the world. 

6^-/1 1 S He little thought that the hostile elements gradually 

mingling with the blood in his veins, were nothing else than 
a few drops of the same fluid with which he once put his 
own father Simon, called the pillar-saint, into a death-like 
trance, from which he had afterwards assisted him back to 
life by means of a red-hot iron. 

Euphemius had shown himself to be an obedient son of 
the church. The obedience would have been imperfect, and 
of no avail, had it been his intention to awake Peter from 
the dead, as the latter awoke Simon. 

In the midst of the attentions shown to the bishop, it was 
announced that a deputation had arrived from Rome, and 
desired admission. This information produced a wonderful 
effect upon Peter ; his face grew animated, he felt the blood 
flowing with renewed warmth in his veins. He commanded 
that he should be moved from his study to the reception 
room, and indicated which of his priests should be about 
his person, and how his guests should be received on their 
arrival at the Episcopal palace. 

One hour after, the palace doors were opened for the 
embassy, which consisted of priests and distinguished lay- 
men, among them a senator, — all in glittering official robes. 

After a long interchange of greetings and congratula- 
tions, the leader of the deputation delivered to Peter the 
letters of invitation from his congregation, whose bishop he 
had been chosen at their episcopal election. 


The Last Athenian. 


551 


Peter answered this speech in a few words, whose utter- 
ance caused him a great effort. His condition rendered it 
necessary to shorten the ceremony. The visitors withdrew, 
after being invited to the bishop’s table the following day. 
When they had departed, the bishop suffered himself to 
be moved back to his study, where Euphemius remained 
with him, by his command. 

The lamp was lit in f he gloomy chamber, and the rain 
dashed against its only window. 

Euphemius threw himself upon his knees before Peter, 
and congratulated him upon having won the high position 
to which his great talents entitled him, and whose pos- 
sessor was deemed, with reason, to be the successor and vicar 
of Christ. He deplored, however, his own fate, and that 
of his brethren in office in the Athenian congregation, 
wdio were now irrevocably doomed to lose their loved father. 

It almost seemed as if there were tears in Euphemius’ 
eyes. He seized Peter’s hand and kissed it, but shuddered 
involuntarily and turned pale, at the death chill which met 
his lips. 

Peter made no answer. Each word would have cost him 
an effort, and his soul w*as now engrossed in thinking of 
the power placed in his hands, and of whose indwelling, 
world-compelling greatness, no one had a better idea than 
himself. 

He, indeed, had more than an idea about it. He knew 
it. He saw the means and the end clearly before his eyes. 

He reviewed, in thought, the career his own force had 
hewn out, from the time he was called Simmias, and was a 
despised, ignorant slave in a heathen house, till now, wdien 
he, in all hi§ glory, would not change places with the sover- 
eign of the Roman world. 

These reminiscences of a life, which had received its 
direction from a single ruling thought, and undauntingly 
made its way over all impediments towards the object first 


552 


The Last Athenian. 


determined upon, were certainly calculated to fill him with 
pride ; but what was this feeling, which quickly vanished, 
to the intoxicating thought of the power he would develop, 
the system he would shape, of elements as yet unarranged 
— a power and a system which would survive himself, and 
built upon the eternal foundations of the dependence of 
the human race, would extend its sceptre over all time. 

Peter felt a demoniac enchantment in this contemplation, 
which, for a while, sufficed to turn his attention from the 
threatening signs manifested in his earthly tenement. But 
these progressed at last with a clearness and force which 
pressed themselves upon his consciousness, tore it from the 
transporting contemplation of the future, and fixed it upon 
the realities of the present. Peter felt the dread death- 
chill spreading more and more over his body. His limbs 
were completely benumbed. He turned to Euphemius. and 
commanded him, with words to which his greatest exertion 
could only give the force of a whisper, to bring him a mir- 
ror. The black-haired presbyter hastened to obey. 

By the light of the lamp, Peter looked at his image, and 
shuddered back, as if he had seen a ghost. His complex- 
ion was livid, and his features were so relaxed, so changed, 
that he did not recognize himself. A sudden thought of 
death arose in his soul, and caused the nerves, not yet 
benumbed, to tremble with terror. He endeavored to stifle 
this thought. To die now , just as his life ought really to 
commence, this would be, indeed, impossible, — a grim mock- 
ery of Fate, an unreasonable sport of the divine Beason, 
hence an impossibility. 

Peter had the physician called again. As he commenced 
a new investigation of his patient’s case, in accordance with 
the directions of Hippocrates and Galenus, Peter’s eye 
rested with anguish upon his face, to divine his real 
thoughts of the nature and result of the illness. 

Esculapius was silent, but looked surprised and confused. 


The Last Athenian. 


553 


He had never read in his books of any case like this ; hut 
he no longer doubted for a moment that the sick man was 
approaching a hasty dissolution. 

Peter read all this in his face, and the death anguish 
returned to contend with the doubt upon the possibility of 
dying at such a moment, and the will to live. 

At this moment Clemens entered the study. He stopped 
and seemed to recognize Peter with difficulty. But when 
he became convinced that this Death was his foster-father, 
he threw himself at his feet, embraced his knees, and burst 
out in loud lamentations. 

The doctor and Euphemius hastened to remove the unfor- 
tunate youth, whose conduct evidently increased Peter’s dis- 
tress. The sick man was then undressed and laid in bed. 
He endeavored to make known that he did not desire this, 
but his tongue was palsied and his jaws leaden and immova- 
ble. One hour after, the priests living in the palace were 
informed, by Euphemius, of the bishop’s very critical condi- 
tion. They assembled around his couch, and, after the doc- 
tor had told them that the patient’s death was near at hand, 
commenced making the arrangements customary about a 
dying bed. Wax candles were lit, all kneeled, and Euphe- 
mius, with devout voice, began reading the usual prayers for 
the dying. Peter still saw and heard what was passing 
around him, but could only with his look, express the 
anger he felt at these arrangements. When his arms were 
placed crosswise over his breast, he endeavored, though in vain, 
to draw them back. But when at last he felt how the icy 
chill was entering his breast and drawing near his heart, his 
consciousness, what yet remained, was concentrated upon 
the inevitable approach of death, and the will’s inability to 
check it. The sport of Fate, whether reasonable or not, 
was a reality. It had paralyzed his feet, after they had car- 
ried him to the throne of Peter ; it had paralyzed his hand, 
after it had gathered in it the reins of the world. 


554 


The Last Athenian . 


A few moments more of self-conscious life, in which fancy 
suddenly conjured up the figure of Simon, the pillar-man. 
and the flask, by means of which he was sunk in the death- 
like trance, — one thought more, bitter and awful, conjured 
up by the same play of fancy, a thought of the plots of 
rivals, of poison and sleeping draughts — and the last sign 
of life had vanished. Peter lay, like a corpse, with stony 
limbs and glazed eye. The physician placed his hand upon 
his heart, and pronounced him dead. 

It was Euphemius, who now bent over the dead man, and 
closed his eyes. 

Two days after, a solemn procession marched to the cathe- 
dral, into whose vault the Homoiousian bishop was lowered. 
If any one, the following night, had opened the lead coffin 
in which he was laid, and plunged a red-hot iron into his 
flesh, the world would, perhaps, have witnessed a new resur- 
ection from the dead. 

The patriarch Eudoxus, and the rival for the Roman 
episcopate, who gained possession of it through Peter’s death, 
were unanimous in pronouncing him a saint. An object for 
the worship of pious believers, and an intercessor for their 
prayers, he is enrolled in the canonized throng under the 
name of “ Saint Peter of Athens .” 

Euphemius became his successor in the Athenian episco- 
pal chair, and ought to receive an honorable mention as one of 
those church-fathers who, at the great church councils, most 
zealously and actively assisted in spreading the holy dog- 
mas, which are still received as the only true ones, and with- 
out faith in which no man can be saved. 

Euphemius lived to see the time, when Homoiousion, on 
account of an imperial rescript, was abased to the position 
of an heretical and godless doctrine. Euphemius could not 
save Homoiousion, but saved himself, by going over to 
Homoousion, after which — this should also be named — he 
united in the exertions of his new religious brethren to 


The Last Athenian . 


555 

root out with fire and sword, the believers in his former 
error. 

he unhappy son of Chrysanteus was one of the victims 
of Euphem ius’ pious zeal. 

Poor Clemens was mad, and Homoiousion had become to 
him a fixed idea. He could not be converted; he must, 
therefore, die. 

From Italy, Theodoras betook himself to Africa. By cast- 
ing aside his priestly dress, and assuming another name, he 
succeeded in escaping persecution, but rendered himself 
full worthy of falling a victim to the adherents of the 
“ unity of church and confession,” for he lived and labored 
with blessings in Christ till his old age, and formed one of 
the links in that chain of Protestants, which runs through 
the time previous to the event called the Reformation — the 
pickets of the congregation of Christ, in its great impending 
strife with the priest-church. 

A few years after the death of Chrysanteus, the waves of 
migration rolled over the Roman empire, and barbaric 
armies stood before the gates of Athens and of Rome* 
The thousand-year night of the middle ages fell over the 
world. A new day has now come. Antiquity and Christi- 
anity pervade each other. Their truths are wedded into 
a harmonious whole, and the cause, for which the last 
Athenian fought the fight of despair — the cause of political, 
religious and scientific freedom — still fights on, no longer in 
despair, but with the certainty of victory. 


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